


Blame it on the friends you keep

by lesbleusthroughandthrough



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-09 05:51:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 55,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3238661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbleusthroughandthrough/pseuds/lesbleusthroughandthrough
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“I’m Marco,” the hat offender said.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>“I’m Mario,” Mario said.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Fuck, Mario’s brain said. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>My favs go to university and this is probably a little too influenced by Love Actually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. September

**Author's Note:**

> They say write the story you want to read- so I took my favs and made them go to my uni. This may be one of the most random things ever born out of my procrastination.
> 
> The title is from the song "Wetsuit" by The Vaccines.
> 
> Nobody belongs to me.

Mario was thinking about his lunch. Mostly this was an issue because he’d just had breakfast, it being nearly eight o’clock in the morning. Mario didn’t know how he felt about breakfast: necessary as a meal, sure, but far too early for his taste buds to register cardboard weet-a-bix.

Lunch. Now, lunch was a different matter. Lunch was an endless list of possibilities: so many countless, mouth-watering things. This was normally the part where someone - Rob, usually- would remind him that “mouth-watering” was in no way an adjective for the produce of the campus restaurant.

He sighed and tapped his pen impatiently against the desk. It was stupid o’clock in the morning but the late September heat was heavy and his t-shirt was already sticking to his back in the crowed lecture theatre. He now regretted wearing pants that finished below his knees. You had to give it a few weeks, give it until mid-October at least. Then jeans might be a decent clothing choice. And, typically, this is when they would probably actually fix the air conditioning. Or the ventilation. As a bare _minimum_.

“ _Whassup_ , Donut.” Kevin slid in to the chair beside him with all the grace and ease that could be possibly afforded to the human embodiment of a golden Labrador. “First day of our specialisation year. You ready? You set?” He raised his eyebrow at Mario’s pages already set out for quick-fire notation. “ _Suma cum laude_ again, buddy?”

Did his voice really have to be that _loud_? Mario winced and Kevin grinned like it was exactly the reaction he was hoping for. He slung a large arm around Mario’s shoulders and watched with something that was too much like joy as Mario recoiled, then made a yowling noise as Kevin’s fingers ran the wrong way through his hair.

“It’s too early in the year for this, Grosskreutz,” he snapped, shrugging off that pathetic Labrador weight and raising his hands in vain to try and save what he already knew was the lost cause of his hair.

“You mean it’s too early in the morning for _you_ , my most dearest Pretzel.” Kevin lounged back in his chair and reached half-heartedly for his bag. Mario’s stomach growled- _already_ \- and Mario wished for the seven hundredth time since he’d first met Kevin that he’d stop calling him by the most delicious of carbohydrated goods.

“I’ve only had one coffee,” Mario grumbled, by way of agreement. Giving up on his hair, he rubbed at his cheek instead in the hope that it would wake up him. “Why are we here, Kev.”

“Economics. Because only our administration would give us a three-hour lecture at sunrise the day we get back.” He looked longingly at Mario’s pages after he’d set his laptop down on the desk in front of him. “Technology,” he said wistfully, picking up a sheaf of _Mario’s_ paper and fanning himself with it, “not good for every situation.”

It was sort of funny and Mario should have laughed. But Mario didn’t laugh at eight o’clock at the morning. The only thing Mario could think about, with an ever growing sense of urgency, was his lunch.

With a groan he placed his forehead on the cool worktop. The lecturer was late, it was early and he was trying to block out the call of the cafeteria’s siren muffins only meters from where he had to now put up with an over-cheerful, too-loud, unfiltered Kevin. The semester hadn’t even started yet. What could he have done already to deserve this?

“The guy in front has your taste in hats,” Kevin leaned over to whisper in his ear. He snorted. “Terrible taste.”

So loud.

Mario managed a croaking noise and directed his thoughts back to muffins. It was much safer territory than possible ways to murder Kevin without anyone noticing. It was too early to feel this violent. Where was Mats today? Mats was his favourite pre-dawn lecture buddy. Mats brought calm and serenity. He didn’t talk to Mario before a reasonable hour. But it wasn’t like him to be anything but punctual, either.

Mario hoped for Mats’s sake that he had not been struck with some sort of notion, one of his “fun” ideas, and that Mats was not right now looking down at them from the back of the lecture theatre with a smug grin on that Count of Monte Cristo face of his.

He lifted his head and twisted to squint back down the rows of seats, finding within about five seconds the giggling shapes of conspirators Lewandowski and Hummels.

Mario wished his morning moods conveyed actual fear and weren’t just a source of humour for his friends. He narrowed his eyes to convey his pure and adulterated hatred for the two of them. Or, as much unadulterated hate as he could muster right now. Hate was exhausting.

Mats winked and Rob gave a giggly salute.  Mario violently directed all thoughts back to muffins.

“Cheer up, Peanut Butter Cup.” Kevin was grinning at him again as Mario turned, redirected his scowl rightfully at Kevin, and then re-placed his head on the desk. Just _where_  was their lecturer?

The Windows start-up noise sounded too close to his ear and he flinched, making Kevin laugh again.

“Haha-haaa, I only hope Economic Institutions with you is as fun as this for the rest of the sem...” he trailed off, “...ester. _Hey!_ I _do_ know that head!”

It was the surprise and delight in Kevin’s voice- so much more surprised and delighted that normal, and than anyone should ever be, ever- that made Mario lift his head from his half-slumber with something like interest.  Kevin had pitched his entire body over the desk and reached down two rows to pluck, Mario guessed, the earlier hat offender’s said hat neatly from his head.

The poor soul gave a wounded yelp and raised his hands to save his hair, like Mario had only moments earlier as Kevin was clearly on a morning-ruining roll today. Mario was distracted by the hat. It really _did_ look like one he would wear. It was only when he heard the impressive yowl did he address his attention to the victim. The victim’s pointed and petulant scowl. Threads of blonde hair hanging over his eyes. Eyes that were infusions of mint and hazel and glazed and God, Mario was starving but the tightening was no longer in his stomach but his chest.

“Royce!” said Kevin, with a yelp.

“Kevin?” said the hat offender, with astonishment.

 _Muffin_ , said Mario’s short-circuiting brain, through the alarm bells.

As a consequence of the sudden lift in his sternum region, something even weirder happened. Mario’s cheeks tightened. His lips parted. His teeth felt air.

Mario’s teeth _never_ felt air before his second coffee. He blinked, blinked again, blinked a third time until, dazed, he rose from his coma to find there was conversation. For all he knew he could have been out for five minutes, studying that pattern of such soft eyelashes as they dusted such sharp cheekbones.

“... and you know I never planned to stay too long in Gladbach. The international rep is better here you know?” The smile was sideways. The teeth were far from perfect. Asymmetry was not an element. Oh God, there were _dimples._

And he turned to face Mario. And Kevin turned to face Mario. And Mario continued grinning. He knew he looked like an idiot. He _knew_. But he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t.  

“I know Marco from Ahlen,” Kevin said. His voice sounded strange, and he was making an unusual expression in Mats and Rob’s direction, an expression Mario was not even mildly interested in reading past that it was unusual.

“Hi,” he reached out a hand, his voice thick as it hit the lump in the back of his throat. The receiving grip was firm. Dark tattoos swirled up from shadows of his sleeve. Mario’s skin burned.

“I’m Marco,” the hat offender said.

“I’m Mario,” Mario said.

 _Fuck_ , Mario’s brain said.

 

* * *

 

 

 

How could they already be nearly out of lint rollers? Alexis scratched the back of his head at the sight of the empty shelf and then looked down at the tumbleweed of blonde sprawled at his feet. “You don’t really shed that much hair, do you?” he asked. Why four post-adolescent boys owned a golden retriever when they had barely learned to nourish themselves was probably the question he should have been asking.

Poker made a wining noise and rolled on her back over Alexis’ shoes to stretch. The furry yellow outline she left at the bottom of Alexis’ tracksuit pants, he supposed, was his answer. The single large puppy eye he could see from the angle she lay at made him feel immediately guilty.

“It’s not your fault, my princess,” he bent down to run his fingers to the lovely soft hair on her belly. “ _You_ can’t help the fact that your hair falls out in copious amounts. Every day. All the time.” He lifted his head, aiming the next remark over the kitchen countertop separating him from the sitting room. “Whose dog is this anyway?” he called.

“Mine!” At Ney’s voice Poker rolled back on her front, ears up. Alexis sighed and scratched under her chin.

“You don’t quite bite the hand that feeds you, but you definitely don’t pay it as much attention as you should,” he said fondly. Poker made a distressed whining sound, gave Alexis’s hand a compensatory nudge with her cold nose and pushed herself to her feet, padding happily in to the living room after the sound of her beloved with her tail swooshing back-and-forth.

Alexis straightened again and hung her lead up beside the door. When it was warm out like this walking the dog didn’t bother him, but when it got cold and wet and into the thick of midterm season he was going to have to have a serious sit down with his other flatmates.

Well, one flatmate in particular.

By the time he had turned back to sitting room Poker had clambered on the couch and was spread all over Neymar, nuzzling and whimpering with the thump-thump of her tail against the couch cushion a signal of her delight as Ney let go of the PlayStation remote for a fraction of a second to sling his arm around her torso to hold her close.

“Heya girl,” he said, distracted. He half-planted a kiss on her muzzle, eyes still locked on the screen.

Alexis looked on with pity as Poker pawed at Ney’s hoodie for more attention. It was no use. Poker adored Neymar, she had ever since he’d brought her home six months ago when she was so small she could barely wobble upright, and Alexis was sure that the feeling was reciprocated but _Ney_ didn’t feed her, _Ney_ did not walk her, bring her to the vet, _pay_ for the damn vet, and Ney did definitely not open his door for the poor creature in the middle of the night when she pawed at it. Alexis thought of the countless times he had crossed the hall at three in the morning to scoop said distressed dog in to his arms and bring her across to his room instead. Surely, _surely_ that all merited more love than he was currently getting.

After a moment Alexis pulled a beer from the fridge and crossed back to look at the sprawl of paper on the kitchen top.

“No lectures until after lunch on a Monday, then,” he started, opening the nearby cutlery drawer and rummaging for the bottle opener.

“Yeah but look,” Marc said, barely turning his head from one of the furious footballing battles he and Ney routinely had on the screen. “Time table sucks. No opening for- well, _fuck you_!” He huffed as Ney exploded in to laughter, waved his controller victoriously in the air and started planting kisses on a now too joyous dog, yipping in time to Ney’s yells of triumph. Marc, never one to linger on a loss, because he was used to it- shook his head resignedly, turned and frowned.

“Isn’t it a bit early for beer? It’s... like eleven.”

“True.” The cap hissed open. “But I was at the bakery this morning at half four, so actually for me it’s more like... five in the afternoon.” He grinned and looked down to run his fingers over his schedule. “Enterprise wasn’t such a bad specialisation choice after all, was it? Okay the hours suck but apart from Wednesday we’ve nothing before half nine. By the way, Ney- we’re out of lint rollers. Careful how much hair you ruffle.”

“Seriously Ney,” Marc added, “I am getting real tired of the “Marc, you’re shedding” jokes I keep getting at work.”

Neither piece of information, as usual, seemed to bother Neymar. Alexis had always envied his care-free existence. Everything just always seemed to work out for him: he had a nice, afternoon part-time job and tattoos that worked, he was stupidly talented at everything he started, never had to study and as an extra blow he got to be the dog’s favourite, too.

“Yeah, but nearly all of our exams are written, man.” Ney paused to make a cooing noise at his puppy. “And plus we can’t do football, we literally have class on for every opening.”

“We can’t do football?” Alexis cried in dismay. Beside the timetable was a list of all the sports classes that the university offered and he now scanned it frantically. Ney was right- all the trainings clashed with their lectures.

“We could always just not do a sport,” Marc said. “Take the risk.”

“No,” Ney and Alexis said in unison- Ney with horror, Alexis with shocked surprise. When you did sport with the college at least you got a grade and it added to your average, and this year, averages counted for everything. Unfortunately, they were all _good_ at football, they’d all got full marks in it for their last year and probably all owed it to getting them this course.

“I know,” Marc sighed. “I know.”

Alexis eyed the list- Ney and Marc had already been here, as had Oscar (he recognised his loopy writing in the margins)- noting the criss-crossing and question marking of the various options.

“Hey- you’ve crossed out basketball. Guys, it fits in with our timetable.”

“Work,” Marc said, raising his hand guiltily.

“Rugby?”

“See the notes,” the two of them said. Alexis squinted at the margins and, sure enough, there was a viciously capitalized “I AM A GAZELLE NOT AN ELEPHANT”.

“Don’t knock it ‘till you’ve tried it, Ney,” he grinned.

“I only want to play football. I don’t know any other sports,” Ney whined.

“I can back that up,” Wojciech Szczesny’s voice said from the hall. Seconds later it was followed by the gangly Woj himself, who reached out and lifted Alexis’ beer from his hand like Alexis had been holding it out for him all along.

“Hey man!” As usual, Alexis forgave him immediately and raised his other hand for a fist bump. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

“Same reason you were opening a beer at eleven in the morning,” Woj said, giving Alexis’ shoulder a good-natured shove.  He wandered over and draped himself on the couch between Ney and Marc, spreading his long limbs and reaching over to pull the PlayStation controller from Marc’s hands.

“You ready, Junior?” he asked Ney, who clapped him on the back with delight. Ney was the resident master of FIFA, but Woj was probably his closest thing to a rival.

“You don’t even _live_ here,” Marc grumbled, looking back to Alexis for help with one arched eyebrow.

Alexis had already freed a second beer from the fridge and shrugged. Just because he worked with the guy didn’t mean he exerted any control over him whatsoever. Even if he was technically his superior, he had quickly learned that people didn’t exert control over Woj. That was the greatest thing about him.

Besides, Woj might as well live with them at this stage. They saw more of him than Oscar at any rate.

“And you,” Woj pointed around the room, even at the dog- who had unapologetically stretched her back legs out over his lap. “Are a group of lazy, uncultured morons who can’t do anything but play football.”

“Hey, remember whose beer you’ drinkin’,” Ney said, clearly offended. Alexis didn’t see why, seeing as it pretty much summed him up most of the time. “So anyways, that is clearly untrue because as you _all_ should remember- who is FIFA Kingpin around here?”

“FIFA _is_ football,” Marc said, exasperated. “We do appreciate your Chopin, by the way,” he said to Woj. “Just not _all_ the time.”

Alexis sighed and returned to his list, the beer was lovely: sour and cold in this throat. Wonderful. He’d been awake for too long and he had his first lectures this afternoon, except since he’d taken this job up at the bakery now it would be kind of like going to them in the middle of the night.

“So,” he sighed after several minutes of silence- bar the occasional frustrated grunt and the click-click of console controllers, “team sports are out.” There was only one option left untouched and uncommented, like they hadn’t even seen it. “The only option left seems to be...” he double checked against his timetable, “contemporary dance class, on a Tuesday and Thursday, in the studio in the G Building.” He looked up. “There’s a G Building?”

Woj snorted. “Yeah, yeah. I would _pay_ to see you do a contemporary dance class, Sanchez.”

“Please do,” Alexis paused to swallow another mouthful of beer, “you know I’m broke. Besides, you never know. I might be good at it.” He’d probably be terrible at it.

“I hope you guys are joking,” Ney said, and swore as Onscreen Woj slipped a goal past him. “I can’t dance.” Alexis was willing to bet that Neymar was a fantastic dancer. He was even willing to bet he practised in his room at night.

Clearly the same thought must have occurred to Marc, as he turned around on the couch, pausing to eye Ney, and then flash Alexis his most wolfish of grins.

“No, Marc.” Alexis said firmly. “I was _joking_. I am not doing contemporary dance. I would rather take the risk of landing an asshole of a tutor.”

Marc shook his head, still grinning. “No, you weren’t.” His eyes flashed and Alexis was suddenly reminded why he was always on alert for Marc’s schemes. Because here was Marc, and he smelled a scheme.

“C’mon, ‘Lex-“

“ _Nope_ ,” Alexis set the bottle down firmly. “Remember who brings you the free bread, Bartra. It doesn’t just magically appear so you can eat it all. I implore you to consider this before you make your next move.”

Marc’s grin was, unfortunately, only widening. 

Ney stopped playing and his eyes met Marc’s. And then they turned to Alexis, his expression equally sly. Because all Alexis had ever wanted was two marauding flatmates before the semester had even started.

 _Poor Oscar_ , he thought sadly, _he didn’t even get to defend himself._

Alexis did not like what he saw. He had a horrible feeling they were about to be signed up for contemporary dance lessons.

 

* * *

 

 

 

It had been a long road up to this point. No, it had actually been a long road- five hours in Chicha’s car with all of their worldly possessions, and it had led them here. James reckoned that, in the movie of his life, this was the bit where the camera panned out from his face, and circled around him staring up at the red-bricked buildings from the middle of the courtyard. This was the peak, the turning point.

“Hamez!” Chicha’s voice echoed in his ear. “If you don’t hurry your butt up, we are going to be super late for the Dean and will never get a chance to go by the debating rooms. Is that what you want?” Chicharito clearly did not share his cinematic ideals.

“Hold on,” James huffed. He wasn’t mad. Really. Chicha had a valid point.

“Like,” out of the corner of his eye he saw Chicha’s mouth twitch. “We didn’t come here to specialise in architecture. By Christmas you are going to hate this place. We are all going to hate this place.”

“It’s magnificent,” James breathed. “I could never hate it.” From the website he knew the campus was known as “the Fac”, short for the factory, as it had been an old tobacco factory at the beginning of the twentieth century. The buildings were square and tall and impressive, the old redbrick glowing in the sun, framed with dark wrought-iron pilasters that twisted at the roof’s edge, disguising the pipes. The centre courtyard where they stood should have been dark, but the light concrete ground somehow saved it. The trees were young and green and yellowing slightly as they lined the middle, sheltering the benches, and even though the place wasn’t exactly empty he could hear the quiet dribble of the fountain.

“I repeat,” Chicha’s hand squeezed his shoulder. “Did we spend the last three years busting our balls to get here for the pretty buildings? We did not.”

“No,” James agreed absently, with a sigh. He still didn’t understand how Chicha didn’t see it though. “We came here to do our specialisation in Criminal Justice.”

“Because...?”

“Because this university has won Maidens Moot Court the most out of any other university in the country. Because Toni Kroos and Thomas Muller won it three times and learned their trade here. Because we want to win Maidens.”

“And...?”

“And if we win Maidens-”

“ _When_ -“

“When we win Maidens,” James felt his smile widening. “Our futures are set. Everyone will want us when we graduate. One way ticket to the top of the ladder.”

“So...?”

“So then,” he turned to bump Chicha’s shoulder as he passed him towards the main office. “We can take over the world.”

Chicha cackled. “That’s my boy!” He loped along behind him and swung an arm across his shoulder. “First day of the rest of my life. So let’s not be late.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Bastian might disagree- they were on different levels when it came to their dedication to this particular craft- but Lukas was proud of his investment. Carefully he unplugged the beard trimmer and wrapped the cable around it, sliding it back in to its box, making sure to give himself a Job Well Done Podolski smile in the bathroom mirror before he left it. He looked good today.

He let himself swagger out in to the kitchen and flip the switch on the coffee machine until the room was filled with that cosy singed smell.  He filled two mugs- still warm and fresh from the dishwasher- and hummed to himself as he slinked back upstairs. Today was exciting. Today was going to be _good_ , he could feel it already.

The quilted lump in the bed still hadn’t moved from where he’d left it. He lifted a stocking toe and prodded at it. The distressed moan he heard was an inadequate response- so he poked harder.

“Luuuukiiiii,” the duvet moaned. “Luuukkkiiiii, noooooooo...”

“I have coffee,” Lukas chirped, in a way he hoped was very annoying. He poked one final time with a plantar-ed foot.

This got a response from the duvet, so much so that it rolled over and squinted up at him.

“Why are you awake?” Bastian croaked. “Why are you _happy_?” He blinked and sat up, maybe he finally noticed that Lukas was very uncharacteristically wearing a suit. “Fuck,” he mumbled.

“Too right.” Lukas slid on to the bed next to him and handed him the coffee. He grinned, cradling Bastian’s jaw to plant a kiss on his whiskery cheek. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Fuck,” Bastian croaked again. “It’s your first day. I forgot.”

“You di-id,” Lukas sing-songed. Basti frowned at him.

“And you used that... stubble-groomer...”

“It looks good, right?” Lukas settled back against the headboard. “I think I did good. Long enough to suggest,” he sipped at his mug. Lovely, “that I am a dude and the coolest lecturer they will ever have,” Bastian’s head came to rest on his lap, “ _but_ short enough so that they won’t confuse me as one of their own. Or, homeless.”

Bastian made a muffed complaint, and lifted his hand to draw his fingers under Lukas’s chin.

 “ _And_ ,” Lukas added, his fingers somehow finding their way to fondle the soft hair behind Bastian’s ear. “Did you hear?”

“No,” Basti moaned. “I just woke up-“

“-Manu’s up for the Nobel Prize. Crazy right?”

Basti blinked and took a too-large mouthful of coffee. “The _what_ prize?” Well, he was awake now. “That one they give out for peace? Or is it literature?”

“ _Economics_. There is such a thing as a Nobel Prize for Economics.” He tweaked affectionately at the shell of Basti’s ear. “Apparently it’s him, Ronaldo and Messi on the shortlist.”

“I _forgot_ that they give out a Nobel Prize for Economics,” Bastian said mournfully, “I give up. I should probably give them back my PhD, shouldn’t I?.... Wait. Whoa.” Bastian pushed himself upright, only far enough to put his head on Lukas’s shoulder though. “ _Neuer_? That’s insane. How did you hear?”

“It was on the _news_ when I was eating my breakfast. Can you imagine? Our Manu. I’d love to see Ronaldo’s face. He was so _smug_ at that conference in April. I feel a bit sorry for Messi though, he was nice. Anyway, it must be driving all those ones up there in the big city  _nuts_.”

“Good,” Basti sighed. “Are you late?”

“Yes. Obviously,” Lukas grinned. Normally it was him in bed with the hangover whenever Basti had to get up for early meetings. But Basti still came up and gave Lukas a coffee he knew he wouldn’t touch.

“Finish my coffee with me Luki,” Basti purred, nuzzling in to his neck.

Lukas sighed and rolled his eyes. He didn’t think he’d ever felt happier in his life.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Toni was very fond of the debating rooms. Or, adjacent classrooms which no one ever used, and he’d claimed as his own for moot workshops. And the university had let him, he guessed because at this stage, they’d figured him out for what he really was: the strictest of goody-two-shoes. Thomas probably would not have been afforded the same courtesy, because even though Thomas was, in their eyes, as brilliant as Toni was- he was also a bit too well known as the guy who would probably forget his head if it wasn’t screwed on. And, well, other things.

So Toni got whatever he asked for- his two classrooms in the J building, the one with 18th century heating facilities and the ivy breaking through the inner walls. By some grace of God, the wifi connection was decent. A home within his home, a centre for his long list of responsibilities: mooting workshops, taking tutorial classes, research, his looming thesis... but Toni loved it. He was so glad he was still here and hadn’t decided to go in to the real world yet, unlike Thomas. If anything everyone had expected that to be him. But Thomas had his own reasons for not wanted to hang around.

Plus, this place had turned in to his sort of unofficial office. In the sense that he came here to research in peace and quiet, and normally ended up watching _Homeland_ for hours on end on his laptop. Like now. And had intended to continue doing so until two puppies fell in to the room.

Okay- they weren’t puppies. But these two very definite specialisation students had that fluffy mischievousness to them. Toni was concerned, as he eyed them up; by just how much younger they all looked every year. It worried him how he thought this like he had ten years on them, in reality he probably only had two or three.

“Ohmigod,” the one with a lot of teeth started eloquently, “we, uh... sorry. We didn’t mean to interrupt you while you were busy.” His eyes were popping out of his head. It was a good thing Toni was facing the door, because if the kid could have seen the amount of Claire Danes filling Toni’s screen, he probably wouldn’t have said it in a way that made Toni sound quite so busy and important.

Or, on second thoughts, he probably would. This one had a gushy air about him.

“No, please,” Toni closed his laptop lid, de-earphoning with his other hand. “Do you guys need some help?” Maybe they were lost. They had that distinct green feel about them that suggested this was the first time they’d set foot on campus.

“You’re Toni Kroos,” the one with the number two haircut spluttered eventually.

“Yeah. I am.” Toni blinked, startled.

The two of them looked at each other, and then back at him in awe. The one with all the teeth had a smile that properly stretched from one ear to the other. Toni had never seen anything like it.

“We’ve seen, like, all your debates,” he blurted.

“ _All_ ,” the second one affirmed. “On YouTube.”

“You’re like...”

“... Amazing.”

Toni nearly said “videos of _what_?” before he remembered this was marked on the map as “Debating Centre” and not “Toni’s Room of General Recreation”. All Toni could do was blink with astonishment. Their accent said west coast. Toni had never even _been_ to the west coast.

Thomas was going to be delighted to learn that they had devotees.

“Oh.” He said. This was the coolest he’d ever felt. “Thank you?” They looked delighted. Toni tried to offer them a smile in return. “So... you guys also like organised bickering?” Don’t _try and be funny, Toni_. “You’ve done it before, or...?”

They blinked back at him blankly for several seconds until the one with the smile did just that. Big-time, mega-watt smile. “Yes! We like mooting. We, uh, we did it in our regional college, yknow? We want to do Maidens but, um, we only got to campus today so... just wanted to check the place out. And uh...” he looked giddy for a second and trailed off.

 _Be_ cool _Toni_ , Toni told himself desperately. “Well, our workshops don’t start for a couple of weeks, but you guys are welcome to sign up now.” _Our_ workshops. It sounded good. Like he wasn’t the only one running them, or something. Like he even had a clue how to run them. “First round of Maidens isn’t until November, you know. You have time.” Their enthusiasm was infectious. Even he was starting to feel giddy, and Toni could have never described any of his emotions as _giddy_.

“Uh,” they looked at each other.

“Yeah, will it take long?”

“We’re almost late for class...”

Toni felt a smile creep on to his face. They were so new it was adorable. “I’ll take your emails, okay? Then I’ll send you on the details closer to the time. It’ll save you guys from coming all the way back over here.” And interrupting his _Homeland_ marathons.

“Okay,” the one that Toni decided looked distinctly wicked broke in to a grin. But not in a bad way. It was the best of wicked grins.

Toni found a clean page in the collection on his desk and a pen in his bag at his feet to hand them to him, “just give me your name and your email.”

“Well, the name’s Javier Hernandez,” he wrote it down, “but everyone calls me-“ he switched to block capitals.

“Chicharito?” Toni asked.

“Yeah!” Chicharito looked delighted, and added an @ _hotmail_. _com_ to the end of his nickname with a flourish. Toni wondered what was wrong with “Javier”, it being less of a mouthful. Chicharito handed the pen back to his relatively unshorn friend. “James,” this one said shyly, pointing to himself. Toni noticed that up close the tops of his cheeks were tinged pink. His name rolled off his tongue like syrup, with a thick, smooth Spanish inflection.  

When he’d asked the university to do this, it had been because he’d missed mooting- he’d missed the risk and the rush, and he _knew_ he’d miss Thomas, and in a weird way; he’d miss running after Thomas and cleaning up his messes. And anyway- why not? But with these two- one so disarmingly likeable and the other so clearly devious- and even though it had only been a minute, he wondered suddenly, _giddily_ , if this might be their year.


	2. October

“I am Mr Lahm,” their tutor announced, scraping it on to the board with the chalk and double underlining it for emphasis.

“I thought lambs were meant to be cute and fluffy,” Rob mumbled.

“Your point?”

“He is terrifying.”

Marco had to agree.

“ _He’s_ not terrifying,” Mario interrupted on a breath, “his eyebrows are.”

Startled, Marco turned and was met with Mario’s sunshine smile.

“I see no lie,” Rob admitted on his other side.

“Are we quite done?” their tutor barked- he did look like one who would bark, and mostly definitely bite. Marco could tell already that this would be the class that would make him curl up on the floor cradling a tub of chocolate chip ice cream the night before every assignment was due. Most of his irrational dislike towards his tutor though stemmed directly from how Mario now sat back in his chair, and so was no longer close enough for the mint-smell from his hair gel to tingle Marco’s nose.

He allowed his eyes to linger after Mario; long enough for a smile to poke through Mario’s furiously chewed lips. Mario waggled his eyebrows at him, his eyes clear and caramel when they glinted.

“This is your first of ten tutorials on the law of the European Internal Market,” Mr Lahm boomed from the front of the room, making Marco regretfully redirect his attention. “As you have already had lectures in this subject for the last few weeks, this tutorial will not be a completion of class notes that you should already know by heart.” The way the class collectively tensed at those words would have been funny if Marco didn’t suddenly feel real terror. This smelled of spot tests, something Marco always considered should be filed under “crimes against humanity”.

This one was so small though. It was always the small ones that were the scariest.  He was at least half the size of Mats, for example, and Mats didn’t elicit quite as much general fear.

Marco knew they’d made a terrible mistake sitting in the back row of desks. Himself, Rob and Mario were in for it- if not today, for the rest of the semester, by accidentally sitting in the places normally sought out by antagonists.

“Your final exam,” Mr Lahm was continuing, “As you know, will be fifty percent of your mark.” He drew a large “50” on the board, and an arrow pointing to “final”. “Unlike other tutors,” he was continuing, and rather angrily drawing a second fifty below the first one, “I will not be counting the result from your midterm or your assignments. The other fifty percent of your marks will come from...” It was the most fiery spelling of the word “participation” that Marco had ever seen.

“We are screwed,” Mario affirmed gravely.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Marc knew he liked the guy the minute he leaned back and put his shoes up on the desk.

“Olivier. Olivier Giroud- but you guys should probably just call me Olivier,” he drawled. The soles of his perfectly polished brown wingtips were completely scuff free. Marc thought of his own battered Vans and decided this deserved immediate respect.

“So,” Olivier continued. He smoothed down his sharp red tie that didn’t need any smoothing. “This is your Commerical Law tutorial, yadda yadda yadda. The enterprise specialisation, huh?” He looked around the room, caught someone’s eye and winked. “What on earth prompted you to pick this one?”

“It was the easiest to get in to,” Alexis admitted from the seat next to Marc, cradling what must have been his fourth double shot coffee of the day. No, actually- he _knew_ it was his fourth, because the guy who had sold it to Alexis had told him so, and then proceeded to declare that he was going to start refusing to serve him soon. Alexis was always far too perky, but not on any reflection of the amount of coffee he drank.

“To get rich quick,” Neymar called out with a grin.

Olivier’s eyebrows rose.  “Ah, youth,” he sighed, smiling. “You are so mislead to believe the myth that law will get you rich quick.”

“Yeah,” Alexis muttered, low enough to only reach Marc’s ears, “but if I could afford a suit like that in my mid-twenties, I wouldn’t say no.”

Marc could sense Oscar wriggling uncomfortably with a question- he guessed that a tutor this relaxed was not a situation Oscar was used to- so Marc raised his hand and asked it for him.

“Well,” Mr Giroud lifted a sheet from the desk in front of him and squinted at it, “I had a chat with your lecturer and looked at the assignment list he gave all of you...”

Oscar looked excited. Alexis gulped.

“... and I mean, it’s rough.” Giroud scratched thoughtfully at his designer stubble. Marc decided that he wanted designer stubble like that just so he could scratch at it thoughtfully. “So... look. If you guys can get two to me out of the ten, that’ll do just fine. Essentially if you do them all that would be great for your revision, and we’ll correct them all by the end. But I’ll grade your best two. How does that sound?” He looked around the class for dissent, like there could have possibly been any for such leniency. “Great.” He reached down behind the desk and pulled up a brown paper bag. “Who wants a croissant?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

“James Rodriguez, I can take it no longer,” Chicha declared, as they sat down with their coffees after their first tutorial. It had been scarier than he’d thought it would be, but so far everything was scary.

“What?” he asked. The cappuccino was too hot. He blew at it gently, praying the foam wouldn’t pour over the edge of the Styrofoam. It did. He swore.

“I forbid you,” Chicha was definitely waggling his finger at James as he was mopping up coffee now wasted on the table top. “To sleep with our tutor.”

When debating and James was faced with a difficult point of information, his first reaction was calm. Repeat the question calmly, and give your brain several seconds of a much needed freak-out.

“Sleep with our tutor?” he asked smoothly, on that reflex. He took a sip of his coffee and suddenly had difficulty swallowing.

Unfortunately, it was Chicha who had taught him that trick. He knew too well that this meant James was internally screaming.

 _“_ Ah _-hah!”_ he bellowed, triumphant.

“No,” James stated. He sucked the last of the bitter coffee from his lips.

“Yes!”

“ _Nope_.”

“Look at you! You’ve gone all methodical. I bet you’ve shut your brain down, right? He’s not even in there, is he?” Chicha grinned evilly and leaned across the table to tap at the side of James’s head with his finger. “What would happen if I said his name? Huh?” He put on an evil voice to match his evil grin. “Tooooonniiii Krooossss.”

“Don’t,” James snapped, suddenly hot. “Shut up.”

Chicha threw back his head as he laughed. “You’ve gone all red. It’s amazing- like clockwork!”

“I don’t want to sleep with our tutor,” James lied, he hoped serenely.

“Okay,” Chicha raised his hands in defeat. “Maybe I was wrong. Sleep with him? Nah. You want cuddles and morning-after pancakes too, right? And maybe a cat and a joint bank account and a big white wedding- ow!” James had thrown a pen, and missed- but it was Chicha so he obviously had to yell anyway.

“I do _not_.” James took a very controlled mouthful of coffee.

“Whatever,” Chicha smirked as he stirred his cup. “I think I’d be correct in saying that you’ll be paying particular attention to Criminal Procedure this semester. Although, I’d rather you didn’t do him until after we win Maidens.”

James had forgotten completely about Maidens. He hadn’t been thinking about all that much since Kroos had walked in to their tutorial classroom... apart from _him_. Ever since that first day in the debating centre, since they’d walked in and he’d blinked up at them, with that fading focused look on his face- a look that had made James’s throat swell uncomfortably, and caused heat to collect at his collar. And today... today it had been his eyes. They were so horribly, deeply, beautifully blue. This is definitely the beginnings of a crush he was not looking forward to having.

He sighed.

“How did you _know_ ,” he asked.

“Because you nearly fell off your chair when he walked in today,” Chicha said. If only he didn’t look so smug. “And you then made bed eyes at him for the whole tutorial.”

James hung his head.

“I don’t think he noticed, though,” Chicha added. “Chin up. He’s our debate coach and now he’s also our tutor. You’ll have loads of opportunities to moon over him.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better. I mean not that I would- I _wouldn’t_ \- and not that I can because I can’t... you know... he’d lose his job. And I kind of think he’s married to his job.”

Chicha rolled his eyes and spooned foam in to his mouth. “You are so _boring.”_ Given he said this to James about three times a day, he might as well have remarked about the weather.

James stared down at his cup. Already behind his eyes he saw him, almost business-like: strong jaw, inexpensive but well-cut suit- oh just so. Perfectly. Cut.-, lifting his hand, smoothing his fringe to the right, up and over his hair. He didn’t even notice that he did it. A smooth, controlled movement. That was Toni- smooth and controlled. James wondered suddenly: was kissing Toni all control, or did he go soft? He was rather annoyed with himself- it was far from the first time he’d thought about it. James plain just wanted to know.

 James wondered dreamily about the hair smoothing. Was it because he was thinking? Was he stuck on a problem? Was it a nervous habit? Would these pointless Toni Kroos-related questions continue to fill and fill his head for the next few months?

This was already horrible.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

“No, but,” Marco sighed, “it is not a muffin, its congealed gloop with chocolate chips.”

“No,” Mario grinned, “they are the caf’s _siren_ muffins.” He peeled the top crust from the one in front of him and nibbled at it.

“I’m telling you, I’ve _had_ one. They taste like frozen, industrial batter that was shipped in and placed in an oven. You know _nothing_ about muffins.”

“Go on then, kill my dreams,” Mario broke off a larger piece and defiantly placed it on his tongue. “Mmmm-mmm-mmm- _mmh_ ,” he swallowed. “Delicious.”

“You have chocolate in your teeth, Sunny.” Marco held his steaming mug up to his mouth and hoped that Mario would think that the heat from the cup was what was making his cheeks go red instead of the fact that Marco had been a little too focused on his mouth.

Mario’s phone lit up on the table in front of him and he tapped at the screen. “Mffffft,” he said; his mouth full. Marco raised his eyebrow so Mario giggled and covered his mouth. “Sorry,” he swallowed. “Mats wants his notes back before he goes to his German class, he’s upstairs, can you...?”

Marco shrugged, but Mario was already tap-tapping a reply back to Mats.

“Just... two seconds!” He reached down for his bag and hurried out of the caf, already frowning- somewhere in his own little world.

Marco watched him go. It had been a month- a month since his first day. It was so weird, thinking about it. He hadn’t known anyone when he’d walked through the gate and now not only did he have friends, but he was part of a _squad_. Drinking buddies and football buddies and Mario, Mario and Mario. Marco had always had friends, but he’d never had friends like these: never had friends like Mario.

“Hey,” he said, as Mats suddenly appeared from nowhere and pulled up a chair, as Mats was wont to do, “you just missed him, he’s gone up-“

“We know,” Mats said calmly, placing his elbows on the table to rest his chin on his fingers.

“We?” Marco repeated, dumbly.

“Yeah,” Erik said, his chair squealing as he pulled it beside Mats’s.

“Um.” Marco had a horrible feeling that he knew what this was, as Rob folded in to Mario’s empty chair and Kevin materialized at his shoulder. He just couldn’t figure out what for. “What’s going on?”

“This is an intervention,” Erik said seriously. Erik sort of looked like a giant kitten; so when he was serious his eyes did that annoying big, round and shiny thing and Marco decided that he’d better try and treat this without humour for as long as possible.

“Um.” Marco said again. “Okay.”

Mats gave the others a quick glance, Kevin nodded gravely, and reached for his pocket. Marco recognized the purple and white stripes on the card immediately.

“Tickets for TFC?” He asked. TFC was the university’s pro football team. Was this intervention for a football addiction? If so, they were all guilty.

“ _Two_ tickets for TFC,” Rob corrected.

“You’re going to bring Mario to their next game. Friday.” Mats affirmed, as always annoyingly calm and regal.

“Are these _your_ tickets?” Marco asked him, astonished. “You never miss a game.”

“I consider it a sacrifice for the cause,” Mats said nobly.

Marco closed his eyes for a second and pinched at the bridge of his nose. Interventions were exhausting.

“The cause?” he asked wearily.

His interventioners exchanged glances again.

“It’s a date,” Kevin said. “Duh.”

Marco’s heart momentarily cut out.

“Look,” Rob cut in. “At first it was kind of fun watching you two fawn over each other. Y’know, it was kind of cute. “

“Now it’s getting tedious,” Erik continued, “and we sort of need you guys to get together and end this misery for everyone in the year.”

“Everyone in the _year_?” Marco felt a bit sick. The whole year knew how much he craved Mario. Marco himself didn’t even know what it was he craved, just _Mario_ , and pretty much all of the time. “You guys want me to ask Mario out. On a _date_.” He hoped he sounded as helpless as he felt. He searched for the only part of their respective declarations that he could refute. “This isn’t the nineties. People don’t _date_.”

“We were kind of hoping you guys would just get drunk before now and, yknow,” Rob made what Marco assumed was a _get_ _together_ motion with his hands when he banged the tips of his fingers together. “Some night when we were all down at Saint Peter’s Place. Anyway, you weren’t getting round to it, so we decided to step in.”

Marco had no words. Okay- he had plenty of words. But they were all sort of mulling in his throat and couldn’t quite make it out past his larynx.

“He hasn’t denied it,” Rob noted. They were observing Marco like he was some sort of test subject. “That’s a good sign. He must be considering it.” The others nodded in general agreement.

“What if Mario says no?” Marco eventually croaked.

“He won’t say no, it won’t be different from all the other times the two of you hang out on your own,” Mats promised.

“Which is all the time,” Kevin added, after a moment. “Except finally you might snog a bit.”

Some of the terror that Marco felt brewing in his stomach must have been reflected on his face, because Mats said gently, “he wants to go out with you, Marco. We know. Okay?”

“Look. I can even _prove_ it. Do you know why we call him ‘Sunny’?” Rob asked, with a grin.

Marco could only imagine that it was because Mario, resplendent, smiled all the time, and when he did the entire room lit up. And his smile probably sent fragments of sunshine in to all their chests, like it did Marco’s.

“Because until you showed up, he used to sit with this horrible, long face on him in class,” Rob said, getting up. “The nickname was _ironic_.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

The house was cold- he was home first. Lukas placed the grocery bag down on the kitchen counter and rubbed his cold hands together as he headed back out to the hallway to collect the post scattered the whole way down the carpet runner. He paused at the front door again to flick on the heating. He’d turn it off when Basti got home; he had to take it while he had the chance.

He placed the post down beside the food and made to make some coffee to warm his freezing fingertips when he spotted the peculiar looking envelope. Mostly because it was very formal looking and was addressed only to him.

He picked it up and thumbed at the sharp corner thoughtfully. Official-looking post only came for Bastian, because he paid the bills- which it why he was so snarky about having the heat on when the outside temperature was above zero.

He opened it and sat down.

As he read he slowly became glad that he wasn’t holding a coffee cup. He probably would have dropped it.

It was honestly looking like he would need something stronger than coffee.

Hours or maybe weeks later he heard the turn of another key in the lock. Hurriedly- but with care- he folded the letter back in its envelope, and as a last resort folded it again and shoved it under the fruit bowl to hide it. Then he grabbed a Domino’s leaflet and pretended to be engrossed in the deals on the back cover.

“We’re not getting pizza,” Basti murmured, gently. Lukas couldn’t manage his normal smile as he reached back to tug Basti’s belt loop as he passed. He hadn’t even thought about doing it- it was just habit.

“We aren’t, if you just bought food,” Basti’s mouth pressed in to his ear as he bent down. He pulled gently at the hair at Lukas’s crown when he stroked it. “I’ll even cook, if that’s what it takes. Don’t you remember the last time you had Domino’s pork meatballs?”

Lukas felt colder than he had before when Basti lifted the groceries in front of him and moved away to the fridge. He forced his eyes to open and breathed in the last of Basti’s smell. Misery gathered, heavy and caustic in his stomach.

 _Two  years_ , he thought helplessly. Oh Basti. How was he going to tell him?

Two years.

He could just say it: but different bits of the letter were swimming around his brain and he couldn’t decide which was more important.

He cradled his stomach. It actually hurt now. He was excited and terrified. The part of his life that revolved completely around Bastian Schweinsteiger was the terrified part. He didn’t think Basti was going to like his news, and he had no idea how to break it to him. But the excited half knew he couldn’t give the opportunity in the letter up.

“I’m waiting,” Basti laughed as he started to open and close drawers, “for the smart remark about my cooking.”

The letter, Lukas started in his head, as he watched the movement of Basti’s sharp shoulders under his cardigan. Arsene Wenger wanted _him_. London. _Two_ _years_.

Bastian turned and looked at him strangely. “You alright?”

Lukas shook his head, swallowing down the feeling faster than it came on. It was much easier to think of Basti and smile now. The letter could stay under the fruit bowl for a bit longer.

“But the apron looks so much better on you,” he grinned.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

“Why,” Oscar was looking imploringly at the heavens. “What did I do? Did I ask for this?”

The heavens looked like rain. Alexis didn’t have the heart to tell Oscar that maybe today wasn’t looking like the best one to ask the clouds for a favour.

“We’ll suck it up,” he sighed. The G building loomed in front of them. Alexis could honestly say that after four years on this campus, he had never seen it before- tucked away in the shadows. It didn’t even make that much sense to come this way to access the B building that hid it. For example, this way didn’t bring you past the coffee machine. “Somehow, we’re always in these stupid situations and, somehow, we always suck it up.”

Oscar lowered his head.

“Don’t look at me like that. Unicorns cry when you have your sad face on.”

“I don’t have my sad face on,” Oscar said. He had his sad face on. Alexis could practically feel the universe screaming to rearrange itself and eradicate all trace of said Oscar Emboaba Sad Face. “I tried to change class, you know. I wanted to do orienteering. They told me I’d already been accepted for,” he shuddered, “dance class.”

“Orienteering?” The thought of gossamery little Oscar in the wilderness with only a map and a compass was horrifying. “Sounds dangerous. I forbid it,” Alexis declared.

“Eden said that too,” Oscar sighed.

“Your boyfriend is the clearest risk assessment case I’ve ever seen,” Marc pointed out. He lifted his head from- Alexis could tell by how he was swiping at the screen of his phone- a particularly fixating game of Temple Run. “And you know I mean that in the worst way. He knows what he’s talking about.”

“The guy practically has ‘risk’ stencilled on his forehead,” Alexis agreed. “Like on a wanted poster.” Now that he thought about it, Eden Hazard would look great on a wanted poster.

“Who signed me up, anyway?” Oscar sank to the ground across from Alexis and leaned his head back to the brick. “No, wait. Don’t tell me.”

Marc smirked. “Torture and humiliation. Hum. Let me think.”

“Yeah,” Alexis murmured. “Because, like two and two equal four, torture and humiliation equal-“

“-Neymar.”

“He is so late.”

“He is so _dead,”_ Oscar said, with acerbity that could only be reserved for his best friend. “And I’ll bring him back and kill him again if he decides not to turn up to the class he signed us all up for.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Mario wondered, for the seventh time, if Marco was alright. He was being distinctly un-Marco like. For example, he looked like he was about to bolt- walking like he had pins and needles in his foot or something. He was _edgy_. And silent. He looked far paler than usual, which was bad because Mario already considered him translucent as it stood.

He’d given up asking since they’d left his house. He’d maybe had too many beers, and Marco had had none, so Mario was probably enjoying the scenery a lot more. It wasn’t raining, for starters. Mario couldn’t remember the last time he’d left the house without waterproof footwear, it kind of felt like a brush with death at this stage. The walk down by the river- their shortcut to the stadium- wasn’t bad though- it was muddy, but Mario was careful when it came to his favourite high-tops. The river was just wide enough for the arching bridges to be magnificent as they rose above their heads in the sunset and the banks were full of people trying to catch the last of the weak winter sunshine.

“Crap,” he muttered. All the recent rain had made parts of the grassy embankment flood and just ahead of them their path was blocked by a band of murky green water. He halted. Marco kept going until he nearly toed the edge.

“We’re probably going to have to turn back,” Marco admitted. “It’s too wide. We can go by the road.”

“I can jump it,” Mario claimed. Marco looked back over his shoulder, and his eyes flickered to Mario’s shoes. Marco pursed his lips, and for the first time all night he looked like he was trying not to laugh. “And that,” Mario responded to the glance, “is how confident I am that I’ll make it.”

“You’ll ruin them,” Marco said. One corner of his mouth- Mario’s favourite corner, because everyone had a favourite corner of their best friend’s mouth, right?- twitched upwards.

“It’ll be worth it if we can beat Hummels to the bridge,” Mario shook his arms out to warm up and drew himself to his full height. “I am not listening to him again, because it’s so _obvious_ that the quickest way to the stadium is by the river. If we turn back now we’ll never make it before twenty-five to.”

Marco was silent for a minute- but just as Mario began his run up he said: “well, you don’t have to take any risks, because we aren’t meeting Mats.”

“What?” Mario skidded to a halt, and the mud gave way under his feet. He flailed helplessly for Marco and missed- until he felt Marco’s hands grab his waist and pull him upright, and in a panic he grappled at Marco’s jumper, stretched the cotton. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his face in to Marco’s chest as he struggled to stop his fall. He could hear Marco laughing and sort of wanted to kill him- not that much though, because Marco’s jumper was soft and smelled really nice. Like Marco.

“Like a gazelle!” Marco was out-loud laughing.

“Shut up!” Mario shrieked. His feet skid again and he lurched.

“Balletic!”

“Fuck. Up- agh!” His fingers tore at Marco’s jumper and he reached for his shoulder- and Marco grabbed him suddenly under his oxters and, with considerable strength for scrawny Marco, lifted him up against him. With a yelp Mario flung his arms around Marco’s neck- and Marco took a step back with a resounding _squelch_.

Mario had never been this close to Marco’s face before. It didn’t feel weird. It felt nice being draped across him like this. Marco’s body was very long and comfortable. Mario resolved not to detangle his arms from Marco’s neck unless absolutely necessary.

“Sorry,” he whispered. His breath rebounded off Marco’s lips. “Are you...?” He had a horrible feeling Marco was standing ankle deep in murk.

“Yep.” Marco didn’t look like it was bothering him all that much. The nice corner of his mouth wasn’t twitching anymore, but it wasn’t hiding Marco’s sharp canines either. Suddenly, he added: “why do the guys call you ‘Sunny’?”

Mario grinned. “I am their sunshine,” he could see the soft blonde hairs on Marco’s cheeks, “their only sunshine. Apparently.” He let his weight lean on Marco a little bit more. Adrenalin surged through his veins. The brown tint in Marco’s eyes was glowing.

 “I’ve heard,” he mumbled, “that it was bestowed in total irony.” Wow, Marco’s eyelashes were so long, especially when he looked down. A strand of blonde Marco hair fell from where he’d carefully combed it back from his face. It tickled Mario’s forehead.

Silence. Marco swallowed, Mario could almost feel his throat hum. His shoulders tensed under Mario’s arms and his hands tensed where they held on to him.

“They thought it was funny,” Mario agreed, dragging his focus from all these things he hadn’t had a chance to observe about Marco from further than an inch and a half from his face. “It accidentally stuck.”

“How come you never told me,” Marco said, his breath shaking a bit- like Mario’s heart rate, “that it was sarcastic. I’ve thought for like a month that it was because you were just happy all the time.”

No Mats for the football. Weird Marco. Weird questions from Marco. This was all starting to add up.

“Facetious,” he said.

Marco blinked. “Excuse me?”

Mario swallowed back a laugh. “You mean facetious,” he explained. “Like sarcasm, but without malice.”

Marco grinned and bit his lip. “Sounds like faeces,” he declared on a giggly whisper. He was nervous and it was fucking adorable. “I’m not using it.”

Mario decided that would be the most romantic time to lift up on his toes and press his mouth to Marco’s. He couldn’t help it- because Marco was so stupid and cute, and Mario had been a little too in love with him for a little too long to be capable of stopping himself.

“I can smell a Mats Hummels plot a mile off at this stage, you know,” he told Marco’s lips. Marco laughed, incredulous. Then he swooped down again to kiss Mario with slightly more intent. His hand palmed the back of Mario’s head. His closed mouth softened against Mario’s. Oh God, it was perfect.

Mario was so far up on his toes he was sure his heels would pop out of his shoes. He tightened his grip around Marco’s neck and Marco took another step backwards with another icky squelching sound.

“Whoa, Goetze!” He wasn’t mad. He was nuzzling at Mario’s ear now, so he couldn’t be mad.

Mario coughed and stepped carefully back.

“We are so late.” He reached out and slid his fingers through Marco’s. Marco’s fingers were soft and long- Mario wasn’t going to pretend that this wasn’t the first time he’d noticed. Suddenly he was laughing. He was drunk and delirious and it was all Marco’s fault: and the fact that Marco was exceptionally good at kissing. “For sure, we are going to miss kick off.”

Marco blinked at him, confused, so Mario smiled- he made sure to smile a smile that laid every single new intention he now had for tonight. Then he squeezed Marco’s hand, turned -dragging Marco back in the direction of his house.

Because honestly, fuck the football.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

“But this... we did law land two years ago! When do we get to argue the real stuff, eh? Like... the death penalty. Or something!”

“It’s only a practise.” Toni looked like he was enjoying himself.

“I think he means, Chicha,” James tried to help, “that if we can argue the joint ownership of a wall, we can argue anything.”

“Exactly. Besides, it’s not just _any_ wall. It is The Wall- the gateway to the North,” Toni finished grandly.

“Yeah, whatever,” Chicha kicked his shoes up on the desk and leaned back on his chair. “Why are we pleading for Eddard Stark? Haven’t you seen the show, like at all? We’re doomed.”

“Honestly?” Toni smiled, only a little bit, only enough for James’s heart to slowly burn up in his chest. “Mostly I’m just glad you guys _have_ seen Game of Thrones. Because,” he nodded behind him to Luiz and Silva, the other half of their practise moot looking particularly baffled at their brief spread on the table in front of them, “I don’t think these guys are going to learn the intricacies of the Seven Kingdoms in one night. Can you even watch the series in one night?”

“Are you trying to tell us, coach,” Chicha was sniggering, “that our homework for tonight is to marathon Game of Thrones?”

“No,” Toni said equably, “because next time half of you will wander in here- and by half of you I mean _you_ Hernandez, looking pleased with yourselves and the other half will be wandering around like zombies muttering, ‘was that his _sister_?’”

Chicha looked startled for a second and then burst in to howls of laughter. This was rather pleasing: over the last few sessions it had become more and more apparent that Chicha had finally found an equal when it came to comic timing. This was a relief for James, who for the last four years had been a struggling substitute.

Toni caught James’s eye, and smiled. Fireworks exploded in James’s stomach and he looked quickly down at the table top. 

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little bit jealous. He wanted to be part of the fun, but he had a feeling he’d be torn apart by their teasing.

Okay, so he’d already told himself a hundred times, at least, that Toni was a no-go zone. But, would it be so bad if Toni at least thought he was funny, too- like Chicha? And that when he came over to their table it wouldn’t end up like this; and it always ended up like this: James as the stuttering referee in their banter.

“You know, it’s seven,” Chicha said, very evenly for Chicha. He tapped the face of his watch on his wrist.

“I know,” Toni said, getting up.

“You _promised_ us, Toni,” he whined, back to normal- ever with the flair for the dramatic. He huffed. “I need to be in front of my television with a beer for the kick off at eight.” He stuck his lip out petulantly.

James rolled his eyes, and Toni must have seen because he said his first words in James’s direction: “How you do put up with him?”

That was absolutely James’s moment to be cool, and James absolutely choked on his words.

“Um. Erm,” he said. Because he was very articulate and counted arguing reasonably as one of his hobbies.

“Just... do out your argument following the headings I gave you, alright?” Toni was already giving an answer to Chicha. “We’ll do the mock Monday. Same as last time.”

Chicha saluted Toni’s back as he walked over to the other table (Luiz appeared to be trying to pull out some of his curls in frustration). Then he snorted and leaned over to whisper to James.

“Don’t,” James said drily.

“-Bang him. Please. Just do it.”

“That _leery_ face doesn’t suit you. Go home,” James gathered the papers from their file on the desk in front of them and began rearranging them in order.

Chicha made his favourite evil cackling sound as he swept his books in to the mouth of his bag.

“You’re better than this,” James said. His resolve broke and he grinned. “That got old about two weeks ago.”

Chicha swung his bag on his shoulder and ruffled the front of James’s hair. “Right. Like you woke up one morning and decided you didn’t want that ass.”

Unperturbed, James tapped the pages twice off the desk to bring them in line. “Like you’d give me a chance. Don’t eat all the baked beans on me, alright? They’re on my shelf for a reason.”

“Enjoy the library, loser.”

James gave him a cheerful wave as Chicha headed for the door. Then he sighed and dug around in his bag for his vibrating phone.

Mum. Mum and his sister, sending him pictures from home: a new couch for the sitting room, wrapping still on it. A celebratory apple pie. Good luck, the accompanying message said. Be strong.

Loneliness swelled in his throat and tugged at his smile. He missed his home- he missed his family. His Mum’s messages were always cheesy but they always choked him up a bit anyway. College was tougher now- way tougher, tough enough to make him need to go the library at seven o’clock on a Friday night to round up on some assignments. He lived with Chicha and they had other friends now and really, it was great, just-

“Rodriguez?”

James nearly let the phone drop. It was close. Slowly, he lifted his head to find Toni standing where Chicha had been a second earlier. Or maybe it hadn’t been a second- the classroom was empty, the maybe half a dozen other attendees of the workshop had all filtered out.

“You alright?” Toni asked. He had a rucksack slung over one shoulder- it was a strangely boyish look for a guy in a blazer and slacks, James thought fondly. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who was finding that he wasn’t so grown-up after all.

“Yeah,” he said, breathlessly. Conversations with Toni rarely came without their respiratory difficulties. He managed to pull himself to his feet.

Toni cocked an eyebrow. It raised the skin on his cheek, making one cheekbone even more prominent, if that were possible. James thought dreamily: so sharp you could probably grate cheese off it.

“You’re not off to watch the football, so.” It was a statement, not a question, so James shook his head.

“The library,” he said hesitantly. He was almost pleased that Toni looked surprised.

“Really?” He asked.

“Yeah,” they were in this conversation five seconds and James could feel himself going mortifyingly red already. “I don’t want to be doing case studies all weekend.”

“ _My_ case studies?” Toni asked. When James hesitated he added: “whoa, sorry about that.”

James couldn’t meet his eyes. He didn’t need to see how sorry that blue Toni sea was, so he shook his head again and focused on getting out the door. Strange, being alone with Toni and all the intelligent conversations they would have were all that filled his head these days, and now that he was here, he mostly just wanted to run. “It’s not your fault.”

The corridor was deserted and cold. James turned the collar up on his coat to protect his ears from what would be an undoubtedly freezing outside. Also, he was sort of hoping that Toni hadn’t noticed how red they were yet. And his ears were very red, judging by how searingly hot they felt.

“Well,” Toni stopped. James examined his laces. Chicha always said you could judge a guy solely on his shoes, so James memorized the slightly battered suede of Toni’s trainers. He’d have to ask Chicha to dissect them later. “Look... you must be-“

James froze. He didn’t want Toni to feel sorry for him, on top of everything else.

“Must be what?” he rasped.

“I was going to say you must be hungry.” Toni smiled and it was warm, like James’s entire damn treacherous body. “Do you want to get something to eat with me first, maybe?”

James’s jaw could have hit the floor, but instead it said: “sure.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Bastian spotted a very late Lukas slide in to the university’s convention lounge and caught his eye immediately by raising his champagne glass in the air, motioning urgently to the base of his neck.

Lukas, from the other side of the room, hid his head in his hands in mock desperation and waded through a sea of people towards Basti. Someone had placed a large tropical pot plant in one corner and Basti was now hiding between it and the champagne trolley, in case anyone saw the massive failure that was his tie.

“You’re late,” Basti said, as Lukas reached to fix his bow tie tied far too tight and very incorrectly around his neck. “I even told you to be here half an hour before so you’d get here on time, and save me from my tie woes and you’re _still_ late.” He couldn’t be mad though. He couldn’t be mad when Lukas had that grin on, a grin only he wore when they got this close.

“I was... correcting.” Lukas paused and something passed over his face, Basti guessed frustration because then he started to tug at the knot with his fingers. “I don’t even _wear_ bow ties,” he hissed, through his teeth. Fingers brushed Basti’s throat as he gave the fabric a quick jerk. Basti hadn’t been near him since this morning, so his skin burned a bit at the touch, and when he swallowed deeply Lukas’s smile only widened.

“You’re wearing one now.” As indiscreetly as possible after all the champagne he’d accidentally drank far too fast, Basti let his flute-free hand slide under the bottom of Lukas’s tuxedo jacket and curl around his hip. He pulled Lukas closer. “And it looks _very_ nice,” he added, conspiratorially.

Lukas was not what you would call clean-cut: he was far too fond of track pants and wearing the same socks several days in a row, and didn’t even shave fully most of the time. Basti didn’t even disparage this side to him because he was so besotted with Lukas exactly the way he was, it didn’t even occur to him to nudge him in a better-dressed direction. But, for some reason, Lukas was the resident expert in bow-ties. 

It was just... sometimes, like now, when he dressed formally it was like Basti had forgotten how good he could look in something tailored and it made him sort of want to jump him.

“I’m wearing it for _you_ ,” the silky fabric was moving easier now under Luki’s fingers. He raised his eyes from his task and grinned. “The sooner I get back in to a t-shirt, the better. I won’t know what to do with all that air around my neck.”

“Yes, but you’d do anything for me,” Basti said. He sounded a bit too proud. Better ease up on the Dom.

“I would.” Lukas sighed dramatically. “I _do_.” He finished by straightening the new and improved bow in line with Basti’s collar.

“Hey.” Basti whispered it and it was the only warning he was going to give before he finally gave in to his throbbing craving to kiss him. Like coming home, tension eased from his shoulders.

Lukas’s hands stretched up from his tie and curled around his jaw. “You taste like grapes,” he sniggered. “Sour ones.”

“Sour grapes someone paid a lot of money for,” Basti agreed, still leaning forward, drawn to him. His hand was now accidentally half way around Lukas’s back, pressed to the base of his spine.

Lukas’s forgotten hand thumbed absently at the edge of Basti’s jaw when he reached past him for the table of filled champagne flutes. Basti pressed closer and allowed his nose to rest in against Lukas’s neck.

“You even _smell_ like a snappy dresser today,” he murmured, happily. Then he lifted his lips to hold them to Lukas’s temple.

“I clearly have some catching up to do.” Lukas swallowed a laugh with his first glass. His cheeks had gone red.

“You wouldn’t have had to catch up, if you’d just been _on_ _time_.”

“It’s like a wedding,” Lukas observed as a bunch of even better-dressed scholarly types walked past. “But no classical music. Or bride.”

“Bride’s over there,” Basti motioned over to the stage where Manuel Neuer was shaking hands. “He’s getting married to that medal he carries everywhere.“

“You aren’t funny,” Lukas said fondly. His eyes fixed on Manu. “He looks so... serious. It’s _weird_. Last time I saw him he was passed out on our couch and you were balancing shot glasses on his stomach.”

“He won a serious thing,” Basti conceded. “Everyone gets very awed by the “Nobel Prize” bit, even if they don’t know what he won it for. Still- nice of the administration to throw him a party and buy us alcohol to celebrate.”

“Is he going to speech?”

Basti shrugged. “I was waiting for you before I went over to talk to him,” he admitted. His arm had found itself the whole way around Lukas’s back now. Accidentally.

“You’ve been here, what, an hour? I mean... you worked with him on his analysis. You don’t need me to go over and say hi, he’s your best mate.”

“He’s your best mate too.”

“I am but a lowly lecturer who didn’t get an invite,” Lukas said bitterly. “And tonight, am but your plus one.” He downed the contents of another champagne flute and made a disgusted face, which Bastian just had to kiss. Repeatedly.

“You should be circulating.” Lukas didn’t look displeased, or anything. “Schmoozing.”

“Well, I can’t. You’re here, and you brought your monkey suit. I don’t want to schmooze. I kind of just want to find somewhere to do you. Right now.”

Lukas’s eyebrows shot up. “No.” Mirth shook his shoulders. Basti wound his other arm around his back.

“But I can’t wait until we go home,” Basti whined in to his neck.

“Oh. Lord. Right, we’re going to say hello to Manu.” Lukas made a choking sound and then burst out laughing in Basti’s shoulder. “I can’t do this,” he spluttered, suddenly holding as tight to Bastian as Bastian was holding on to him, “I can’t be the sensible one. That’s _your_ job.”

He wriggled free and took a deep breath, straightening his jacket, his tie- and then Basti’s tie. Basti knew he was beaming because it was reflecting on Lukas’s face. “I am so glad someone put the champagne trolley in a corner,” he was muttering. “Maybe no one noticed that we never left adolescence. You ready, bud?”

Basti cleared his throat and reached down to take Lukas’s hand. “I love you,” he announced. He might have swayed a bit as he did so.

“No more champagne for you,” Lukas agreed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Warm, wet dog breath woke Alexis. As soon as his eyes opened it was over- he saw joy explode in to bright, brown eyes and Poker wriggled on the bed beside him, shimmied up against him and began a thorough cleaning of his face with her tongue.

“Hey, my princess,” he murmured. Sleepily he raised his head and blinked to see Marc closing his bedroom door behind him. At the sight of Alexis in bed he looked sheepish- in his arms he carried, among other things: a box of Cheerios.

It was probably a sign of how long they’d been living together that Alexis knew exactly what this meant.

“Sorry,” Marc whispered. “I didn’t realise you were asleep.”

“A guy can’t close his eyes in peace around here. Shhhh,” he said the last to the dog, who was about one hundred times happier than he was that he was awake, and was demonstrating it by nuzzling and rolling around on his bed making moany, jubilant dog noises.

“The hours you keep are just getting weirder. Either people go to bed or they don’t at eight in the evening, they don’t take naps. I mean look, Woj and I were talking-“

Alexis looked up at him in disbelief. Not again.

“- and _what_?” Marc said to the face he was making. “We both agreed you need to ease up on your shifts at work.”

Alexis sighed and closed his eyes again. “I work the same number of shifts as Woj.”

“Woj isn’t doing a law degree. Literally all Woj has to do is his shifts.”

“I wish you two would stop trying to _parent_ me.” He hated this conversation.

Marc began setting down the contents of his arms on Alexis’s bedside table.

“We will when you stop going all-“

“-Don’t say it-“

“-martyr on us. You’re going to run yourself in to the ground. Seriously.”

“I’m not trying to be a martyr.” Alexis liked his work. Alexis liked studying. The fact that the two of them didn’t leave much time in his day for other things wasn’t their fault, so he made cutbacks elsewhere. Like on sleep.

That’s why they invented coffee, right?

Plus, Alexis also had to run around after his housemates and do all the adult things that they were oblivious too: like bills, and buying food that actually came from the ground, and vacuuming. So really, this conversation needed to be directed the other way.

“You know, that is a very martyr thing for you to say.”

Alexis pulled the dog to him and moved them both over so Marc could slide on the bed too. Alexis groaned at the movement.

“I have discovered muscles in that class today,” he croaked, “that I never should have discovered. And they all _hurt_.” He buried his face in the dog’s fur. “I hope you brought two bowls, or I’m not going to let you hide in here.”

“I haven’t had the chance to sleep yet,” Marc admitted. “But I’m not looking forward to tomorrow morning. Here,” he held out a bowl and Alexis sat up.

“You even brought milk,” Alexis said, impressed. Dry cereal ding-ding-ding-ed against the ceramic and he dug in with his spoon, suddenly starving.

They chomped together in silence for several minutes.

“So,” Marc swallowed, “that dance teacher was pretty... interesting.”

“If by interesting you mean whacked, then, yes.”

“Be nice. It’s good that he’s so dedicated.”

“He’s both. He’s dedicated _and_ whacked. And also a bit of an arsehole. I respect that.” He threw a piece of cereal in to the air and Poker caught it with a snap. The dull beat of her tail sped up against the bed: this was now a game.

“I had no idea that the dancing department had won so much.” Marc’s lamp-like eyes followed the path of each flying Cheerio. “I guess it’s all down to him.”

“You don’t need to guess,” Alexis pointed out. “He told us. And then he told us again. And in between that, I heard all about my lack of “musicality”. While he waved his arms around, like that meant the sky might fall in.”

“Well, only seven weeks to go. After that I never want to hear the word “plié” again.”

 “Hmmm. At least when Jose Mourinho, Lord of the Dance, picked a protégée, it was Oscar for a change. Not Neymar.”

“What do you mean, ‘a change’?” Marc’s mouth was full and he made annoyed sounds until he finally swallowed. “Our teachers either like Oscar _or_ Ney. When does it get to be our turn? Wait- no, even Giroud likes you. It’s really pissing Ney off, actually.”

Alexis grinned, pleased. “It’s okay, _I_ like you Marc. Or I wouldn’t let you hide in here so soon after my nap.”

“You’re eating too.”

“Oscar knows that it’s you stealing all his cereal.” He’d probably known for about the last four years.

“It’s not about the cereal any more. He was slobbering all over Eden on the couch while I was trying to watch the match. Even _she_ was getting grossed out.” He rubbed behind Poker’s ears. “So, this is my revenge. Or a protest. I haven’t decided.”

Marc could buy his own cereal. Alexis, even, could buy Marc’s cereal. But then Marc might stop coming in here, and Alexis would miss him. He thought this like they didn’t live together and see each other every day, but this small ritual where Marc would sneak in here with the contents of Oscar’s food cupboard was a part of the week he really looked forward too. He liked Marc- who was wonderfully level-headed when he wanted to be.

Besides, he did have a point. Alexis was eating it too.

“Do you think they’re still out there?”

“Oscar and Eden? What do you think?” One of Marc’s eyebrows rose in to a perfect arch. Marc properly had eyebrows that were made for arching.

“Ney not home?”

“Again, what do you think?” Marc chased a stray Cheerio around the Mediterranean of milk at the bottom of his bowl with his spoon. “He never really is gonna get over Oscar, is he? Even after all those hints we got him to drop.” He smiled, “I miss when our binge sessions were Neyscar tactic sessions.”

Alexis yawned. “I think we can agree that Eden is probably better for him on the whole.”

“Ney has to stop hiding whenever things start to look soppy. It’s cowardly. And annoying, because then I have no one to talk to if you’re napping.”

In silence again they munched. Marc reached for Alexis’s phone and scrolled, finally settling on an album and then Arcade Fire rang softly through the room. Even Poker let her head fall in to Marc’s lap and her tail slowed.

“Any good, ‘Lex?” He ran his fingers over the spine of the book in the window beside the bed. He lifted it up and flipped it over to read the blurb.

Alexis sighed and rolled on his side. He placed his head on Poker’s shoulders to use her as a pillow. “I dunno, I haven’t been reading.”

He looked up, and Marc glanced down at him on Poker’s head and grinned. “Two puppies,” he laughed, patting Alexis on the head.

“Hey!” Poker had rolled over and started to clean Alexis’s face again. “That one’s good. I’m about a chapter in, but it’s good.” He yawned and buried his face in fur, and Poker yipped, wanting to play. He felt Marc reach over and lift the cereal bowl from his lap, heard it clunk on the table, and then Marc patted his head again. He yawned now and opened the book- and started to read.

“Quiet, princess,” Alexis murmured in to one of Poker’s silky ears.

He let his head rest on his actual pillow, exhaustion creeping through his muscles.

It was about then that he felt the soft touch at the back of his head, just where his spine started. Marc’s fingers spread down to his neck and ran over the skin in soft circles.

It took everything in him not to tense. He let one eye open and look up.

Marc had the book open and balanced on his other leg. He looked totally engrossed: his mouth twisted when he sucked at his teeth in concentration like that. Then his thumb ran down the back of Alexis’s t-shirt and pressed in between his shoulder blades: and Alexis’s whole body went limp.

Maybe Marc noticed. Maybe he didn’t. He turned the page with one hand. His other continued to stroke the length of Alexis’s neck: softly, just enough.

Alexis let his eye fall closed. He wondered if he’d ever felt this calm. God, had his body ever felt this loose? Was he floating? Marc had _magic_ fingers. Tension and pressure and stress and work and study- suddenly it was gone. He couldn’t decide what was there now instead. White fluffy clouds, maybe.

Without even thinking, he lifted his hand from Poker and slid it on to the curve at the top of Marc’s knee. He could feel the warmth of his skin through the cotton.

Something hung in the air. It wasn’t weird. It wasn’t tense.

Peace, Alexis realised. It’s peaceful. Can it never end.

Arcade Fire and Poker’s soft snores were the only sounds, and Marc’s occasional turning of pages. Marc’s nails seemed to leave patterns that went deeper than his skin as he stroked. Alexis reckoned he slept. Heavy and dreamless.

So he jumped awake when the door swung open. He didn’t mean it, but his hand on Marc squeezed.

“Well, _well_ ,” Neymar slumped against the door frame. “Isn’t this _cute_.” Alexis pictured himself, Poker and Marc squished in his bed and had to agree that it was a worryingly accurate description of the situation.

Marc lifted his hand from Alexis and closed over the book- _Come back!_ Alexis’s nervous system howled- and then placed the book back on the windowsill. Poker, clearly slow to rouse from her own dreams, gave a sleepy “woof” and jumped off the bed after him when he got up. She padded guiltily out past Neymar, with her head down. _Traitor_ , Alexis thought.

“No, no,” Neymar laughed, looking smug. “Don’t worry about me. You two just keep doing what you were doing, while I run and get my camera, take this picture and sell it to Hallmark.”

Alexis pushed himself up on to his elbow. His head felt really heavy. Wow, had he _slept_. He could barely lift his eyelids. Marc was gathering the cereal bowls in his hands, and he suddenly looked at Alexis and then that eyebrow arched, like he was saying: “is he on the wrong track, or what?”

Drowsily, Alexis wondered if he was.

Marc kicked at Neymar’s shin when he slid out the door past him. “Welcome back,” he grinned. Neymar shoved at his shoulder in response. He ducked back in to Alexis’s room and pulled the door over once Marc had disappeared down the hall.

Alexis groaned at the sight of Neymar’s narrowed eyes and buried his face in his pillow.

“I’m _warning_ you, Sanchez.” Alexis couldn’t drown the sound of Ney’s threat, even from deep in his pillow.

“Don’t warn me,” he moaned. “Just _go_ for it already. It’s not _my_ fault if you haven’t made that move yet.” Ugh, he could not handle this right now. He was already mourning the fact that he would probably never sleep that well again.

Neymar paused. Alexis regretted being short with him.

“Yeah, but,” Ney sat down on the bed now. “You’re the only one that knows.” He sounded desperate.

“An accident. I regret finding out. I’m not trying to steal your man,” Alexis grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Who, by the way thinks you are still pining after Oscar.”

His skin burned for Marc’s touch. He drowned it out, for Neymar’s sake.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

It always surprised Toni how much this place felt like home every time he walked through the door. The mix of redbrick and whitewash walls, the sudden wave of heat as he slid open the door… It was a strange sentiment to have for a burger restaurant. A bad sentiment in terms of his general health and cholesterol levels, probably.

Sergio saw him from behind the counter and nodded, a grin spreading wider than his ears as he looked up from the till.

Ah yes. And he and his burger guy were on a first name basis. An even worse sign.

 _He’s a cool burger guy_ , Toni told himself defensively. _He has a diamond earring and tattoos_.

“Alright?” he held his hand across the counter for a quick bro-shake.

“Alright,” Toni confirmed. He looked back at James coming in the door behind him. His face was red from the cold and he’d tucked his chin in to his scarf, so Toni could just see the very edges of his smile.

Toni didn’t normally like people. When he did it was generally more acclimatization, or sometimes even after he’d been forced a little bit (Thomas). But he _wanted_ this Rodriguez kid to like him, and he knew that he wasn’t the only one to share this sentiment- if that face Isco put on when asking him for help during their last tutorial had been any indication. Even Chicharito, always so smug and cynical, looked so much more self-satisfied than usual when they were paired together.

Toni’s inkling had been correct. The two of them together at moot court were not only good, but _lethal_. If Chicharito was old-school: all concise and snappy to the point of banging his fists on the desk, James sort of counteracted it in being totally and utterly saccharine, in the same way that six-week old puppies in a pet shop windows lured you in: all hapless with big brown eyes until before you knew it they’d chewed through your entire hall carpet. Or in James’s case: your argument.

“The usual?” Sergio asked. He was giving James a very generous eye sweep.

Toni nodded.

“Menu’s on the wall, kid.” Sergio beat him to it.

The tops of James’s ears were practically glowing and he buried his face further in to the folds of his scarf. He moved over beside Toni so his eyes could take in the menu.

Sergio had that look on his face and Toni wondered if it was bad that he _knew_.  James gave off this aura that left anyone and everyone within a ten-foot radius completely smitten. It was only all the more endearing, Toni reckoned, because James was also totally oblivious to it.

Toni fished out a twenty from his wallet and put it down on the counter.

“For the two,” he said and when James looked dismayed he added: “look, I actually get paid a wage.”

James’s mouth opened and his face had _protest_ written all over it, so Toni turned to Sergio and said “look, he’ll have the same” and then to James: “there, now it’s not a waste if you hate it”.

Then something horrible happened: James smiled at him. But he smiled at him like Toni had never expected to be smiled at: long, blinking feather-duster lashes and Disney prince doe-eyes and actual proper UV radiation.

Toni told himself sternly that the warm he felt in his stomach was wrap-you-in-a-blanket fondness and most definitely not unwrap-you-from-all-clothing fondness, or fondness of any other kind.

“Soft drinks are in the fridge over there,” Sergio chirped, leering.

James looked at Toni pointedly, his expression asking: “what do you want?”

Suddenly things Toni wanted popped into Toni’s head that were everything but potential drinks choices, which he was sure James was asking. He must have answered, because James ducked his chin in to his scarf again and wandered across the restaurant to the fridge.

“I _like_ this one,” Sergio said gleefully.

“It’s not like that,” Toni protested. “He’s my tutorial student, and he looked hungry.”

Sergio snorted. “Riiiiight. Huh, let me see- “I’ll have what you’re having”, because that didn’t come from Date Lines 101.”

“I didn’t say that.” Toni’s mouth was annoyingly dry.

“I thought you all over there,” he indicated behind him, the general direction of the university campus, “got in heaps of trouble for dating your tutorial students. What about-“

Toni cut him off with a glance, which Sergio in turn answered with a delighted cackle. “Okay, well if you’re _sure_ that’s not what it is, it’s kind of nice to see you in here with some company rather than your lonely face. But,” he waggled his spatula, as his other hand was busy fishing change from the till.

Toni resented the sassy Sergio spatula-waggle. It was never a good sign.

“Remember…,” Sergio began. He held up the change behind the counter, a hostage, waiting for Toni to promise. “Hands off.”

“I’m not Thomas,” Toni pointed out.

 “Yes,” Sergio grinned, then he handed over the change, “but this one is cute. And you have eyes. And may I add: needs.”

Toni narrowed his eyes and then followed James out to the back of the restaurant. Several groups of friends were gesturing widely across the bigger tables, and two couples were cuddled up in corners. Toni decided to avoid them. The couch however was free.

Toni didn’t see his mistake until he sat down and James sat in beside him. Toni prided himself with avoiding mistakes, which is probably why when their knees collided a panicked “sorry” fell from his mouth. If anything it helped that James looked equally, if not more, horrified with himself.

This would not do. They were not going to share a loveseat for this. Since Toni came here all the time, he decided to make the sacrifice and pull up a chair.

By the time he’d sat down James was laughing and rubbing his knee where Toni had prodded him, and whatever ice that had been between them broke.

They started with the usual do-you-like-it-here, tell-me-where-you’re-from and moved to the what-do-you-want-to-do-when-you-grow-up, last-movie-I-saw-at-the-cinema-was, until more and more of the other customers trailed out of the restaurant and their plates were clean in front of them, and they were still there, but now it was no-are-you-kidding-but-TFC-are-USELESS and no-but-this-one-time-at-regionals-right.

Words tumbled from James’s mouth as he told stories, and as his voice revved up sometimes, Toni accidentally noticed, so did his eyes.

Sergio came in at eleven with a mop and coughed loudly. “Not a date,” he mouthed to Toni as James walked out in front of him. Toni wanted to take the mop and whack him with it.

Back outside in the chill of the evening the cold suddenly crept right between them and they fell in to silence. And in the silence, Toni wondered, light-headed: why did he have to go and do that? What stupid idea possessed him to ask James for dinner?

 _You didn’t know_ , he told himself. _You could not have known what three uninterrupted hours of exposure could do._

“I never went to the library,” James announced suddenly, almost for something to say. Toni had been striding along the pavement and hadn’t noticed James keeping up step-for-step. He stopped, mostly out of shock. No one ever kept up with him.

In the streetlamps Toni saw the dusting of freckles across the bridge of James’s nose. Toni thought: would it be really that bad though, if he let his hand curl around James’s neck. If he leaned in right now and kissed him.

“I’m parked this way,” he lied, interrupting himself.

“Uh.” James’s bottom lip caught in his teeth. “Thank you. For… the food. And,” he smiled. “No thank you. Uh. For the library bit.”

Toni just about stopped himself from saying “I had a really great time” because he was too busy having an internal battle of the merits of restraint and how much he loved his job versus how soft James’s lips looked.

“If you need help,” he said slowly, “with your case studies, you know where to find me. Right?”

“Aye, captain.” James grinned, turning- Toni couldn’t tell if he was relieved or not- the other way. “Good night.”

As he watched James turn the corner, Toni decided that the universe was a bitch.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Basti’s hand was against the small of Lukas’s back, where his body had arched from the sheet. The air was warm and he didn’t have enough breath to take it in, but sloppy, ardent Bastian kissing was too good to stop.

Teeth tugged at his already sensitive lips and he moaned.

Bastian laughed in to his mouth. He ground Lukas down in to the mattress, lest he might forget just how good it felt. Lukas’s body moved for him and his arms braced around Bastian’s ribs to hold him there. Long, strong muscles pressed against his legs. Lips brushed his cheek and sucked on his neck, down his chest and finally rested on the rise of his stomach.

Air reached places on Lukas where Bastian had been- cooling his damp neck and the blood at the surface of the bite marks on his skin. Basti’s fingers sunk in to his hips. Lukas let his hands drag up through the sweat at Basti’s scalp when finally his head came to rest at that dip on his abdomen, just under his ribs.

Time slowed and Bastian’s head weighed heavy. Lips dusted the edge of Lukas’s hip- Lukas closed his eyes and sighed, winding his hand tighter in to Basti’s hair- before the mattress creaked and Basti was ambling towards the bathroom.

Lukas used the opportunity to stretch out his heavy limbs in to refreshingly colder parts of the bed, arch his back, feel every vertebrae click. He moaned and rubbed at his face, trying to bring himself back to earth, back down from that high. An echo of the pulse of Basti’s hips against his still reverberated through his body. Right down to the marrow.

He crossed his arms behind his head and looked up at the bathroom door where Basti was watching him, furiously scrubbing his teeth with his toothbrush. He paused.

“Don’t watch me when you’re brushing your teeth,” Lukas murmured, blinking lazily- his eyelids were getting heavier by the second. “You know I think it’s super creepy.” It was a lie. There was something in Basti’s eyes when he watched him like that- watched Lukas unfold in their bed afterwards. The intensity of it made Lukas shiver.

Basti shook his head and turned back in towards the sink. “In another life,” he called over the running faucet, “you were definitely a cat. Of the Cheshire variety.”

“I’m not the one who likes getting scratched behind his ears.” His eyes had begun to drift closed when he saw Bastian place the glass of water and the tablets beside the bed, before fiddling with the alarm clock.

“Asprin? Wait- is that your hangover kit? You’re not still drunk are you? On champagne. Like a twelve year old.”

Basti’s chuckle came from deep in his throat.  “ _Me_? _You_ told the front door to shut up when we came in.”

“I’m sorry: who had their giggling ass practically dragged up the stairs?” Without even thinking Lukas stretched one arm and laid a hand on Basti’s soft flank. His ribcage rose and fell under his fingers. “It was like,” he smiled, “being fifteen again, and trying to sneak you into my room in my parent’s house.” Oh so frustratingly giggly.

“New Year’s, right?” The bed dipped when Bastian climbed on it again. “And here we still are. Although... things are a lot less fumbly now.”

Lukas let out a long sigh, and thought suddenly of the fruit bowl and of his horrible lie earlier. “Correcting”, as if its name wasn’t Arsene Wenger and he hadn’t spent nearly two hours telling Lukas he’d made the right decision to come. How much their research team had loved his papers. How he was exactly what they were looking for.

And... during the day, when he was teaching Introduction to Macroeconomics to first years who couldn’t give two shits; he remembered why he needed to do it. How his job was slowly killing him from the inside with the faculty continuously and blatantly ignoring what he had to offer. And Basti would understand- he would, because it frustrated him almost as much as it frustrated Lukas.

But in the evenings, at home... when they were like this, two halves of the same whole: suddenly Lukas wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening. That the incredible happiness he felt right now at this moment could ever end.

So he hadn’t told him. He hated himself for it. Basti didn’t deserve this.

He would tell him, though, when the moment was right.

This wasn’t the moment.

He rolled over and tucked his head under Basti’s chin.

“There’s a minty freshness in the air,” he said, at the smell of toothpaste in the immediate area around Basti’s mouth. He stretched his arms around him, and their legs knit together: a promise.

“Aw,” Basti whispered. “I love you, too.”

When Lukas looked back, he would remember that as the moment his heart started to break.


	3. November

“No.”

Marco leaned back on his elbows, his lips curling back in to a smirk. With exactly zero subtlety, he slowly parted his knees.

Mario looked quickly down at his note cards.

“Absolutely not.”

“But we’ve been studying for _hours_.”

“I,” Mario murmured, carefully placing several more flashcards on the floor, “have been studying. You have not.”

Marco had totally studied for this final and most painful midterm. Really, he had. Although honestly he had done a lot more thinking about it that actually studying, and more time again thinking about Mario than the two combined. Besides, Mario had _flash_ _cards_. Colour coded ones, with golden star stickers. He was never going to reach that stage, so, maybe best call it quits, and turn to other things that he was finding out he might actually be better suited to.

He’d been staring at Mario for the last fifteen minutes in an attempt to get his attention, but either Mario hadn’t noticed or had been ignoring it, so Marco decided to take action. Not that staring at Mario for extended lengths of time could ever be bad: on his knees on the sitting room floor of his apartment, hair everywhere, eyebrows so furrowed they practically met in the middle. Also, every now and again his tongue would poke out between his teeth and dust his upper lip, and when it did, Marco’s heart would experience temporary haywire.

“We have twelve hours,” Mario continued.

“If you don’t know it by now, Sunny, you’re never going to know it,” Marco drawled. Someone had said this to him once and he’d consistently found the opposite to be true- definitely, ten minutes before the exam started was tip-top time for memory retention- but that went against the objective of this particular exercise. “Leave your memory tree, or whatever it is. Come here.”

Mario finally glanced up, expression weary.

“You look terrible,” Marco offered. He probably did too. Cramming meant popcorn dinners and so chronic malnourishment, pretty much no sunlight and red, puffy eyes from all the sleep they weren’t having.

“Alright, alright,” Mario muttered. He placed the stack of cards on the floor.

“Wait, what?” Marco perked up. He hadn’t been expecting it to be that easy. He thought he’d at least have to pout or flutter his eyelashes. Then again, at this point they were both deprived to the point of no longer caring.

Mario shuffled across the floor, rustling across his cards in this incredibly unsexy manner that oddly turned Marco a little more on. He manoeuvred his body between Marco’s legs, stretching his arms to the floor past his waist. His thighs slid under and pressed against Marco’s. They sat like that- chests close enough so that when Marco breathed they brushed- for a long second.

“Happy?” Mario asked. He lifted one hand and let it slide to the back of Marco’s neck and tug softly at the ends of his hair. Marco shivered.

“Ecstatic.” He leaned in to Mario’s hand. Mario let their noses touch, let their lips brush. All the air in Marco’s body left in one, long sigh before they kissed. Mario’s hands curved warm around his jaw.

“Hey,” Mario whispered. “I have a question.”

“Hmmm?” Marco didn’t care as long it did not concern Urban and Spatial Economic Analysis I.

Mario’s tongue poked out of his mouth and curled around his upper lip. This was some indication of his level of contemplation.

“Are we together?” he blurted, words falling so fast from his mouth that they all ran in to one. Then he looked cross with himself. The expression on his face was so precious, it made Marco laugh.

“I didn’t realise that we were apart?” Marco had said it out without thinking, and he mostly wasn’t thinking because he didn’t think about much when Mario was against him- all of his thoughts were replaced with something resembling the Alleluia chorus.

 It was true though. They weren’t really ever apart these days.

Then he realised what Mario was asking. And, actually, his answer didn’t change. 

“Hmmmm,” he felt a slow grin crawl across his face, barely needing to move his lips as he spoke. But he did, because he liked how Mario’s eyes would follow them. “You know the etiquette. You can’t change the Facebook relationship status for three months. At least. Otherwise you are very uncool and clingy.”

And Mario sunshine-smiled back, his head cocking to one side. “But I am very uncool and clingy-” And so Marco pressed their mouths together; open, melting up to him.

Not only did he get Mario, but Mario got to be _his_ Mario. Specially reserved for Marco, Mario. The thought made him tighten his thighs to Mario’s hips and slide one hand around his back. Mario made that lovely happy sighing sound and so, because why not, Marco curled his other hand around the front of Mario’s pants and, slowly started to press with his fingers. He couldn’t decide if Mario groaned or laughed when he did- but either way, the intensity of their kiss grew. One of Mario’s hands left his face and ran along his side, under the hem of his t-shirt, stroking against his stomach. Marco felt the goose bumps rise as the cloth tickled and the garment was pulled up to his chest.

Marco felt his ear’s reaction to the sharp _click_ to his left before he heard it. Startled, Mario let go. Mario, who was very red around the mouth, and pink around the cheeks. Mario, who was looking up; and that was about when Marco allowed himself to do the same.

André waved down at them.

“I already coughed. Loudly. So... ,” he snapped his fingers again beside Marco’s ear, and Marco jumped; the trauma from André’s last assault still fresh. “Hate to break up the party, but at the beginning of the week, you guys _did_ ask, specifically, that I break up all parties.”

“We’ve one exam left,” Mario said crabbily.

“You nearly chopped off my ear.”

“Also,” André pointed out, “although you put up with my shower singing, there are some things no roommate should ever have to hear. Or should ever happen in shared living spaces.”

 “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mario said. Marco swallowed his laughter and tried to match Mario’s angel face. It failed- Mario had an angel face that told many stories of avoiding blame for puddings he shouldn’t have eaten as a child. So Marco gave up, and gave André his best _Am I meant to resist that though?_ Face instead. He was fully aware of where his hands still were.

Andre snorted and leaned down to ruffle Mario’s hair, and then he walked over to the kitchenette. “I’m going to make tea. I will probably be putting whiskey in it.”

“Make a pot,” Marco declared. “Sharing is caring.” And then, with André distracted, he stole a few more seconds of pure sugary happiness from Mario’s lips.

  


  


* * *

  


  


  


  


Music was coming from his earphones and Alexis could no longer hear it: he was only aware that it was. His legs leapt up the steps- he could see them, but he definitely could no longer feel most of them- his bones were heavy and wet and cold and his shoes were bricks on his feet. Just as he felt the seams on his lungs give he reached the top step, and now: to the end of the bridge. He could barely see through the icicles of rain that cut his skin like bullets, and hung heavy and dripped from his eyelashes- but he wiped his arm and the mud that was on it across his face and breathed out, long and slow, and began.

One foot. The second. Repeat. Faster. Faster again. Halfway there. Sprint now. Breathe. _Remember to breathe_. _Useless_ legs- go _faster_.  The gallop of the dog beside him slowed. He may have yelled something in encouragement- something ripped from his throat- but he couldn’t hear himself.

Nearly there.

Elation exploded in his chest- cold, cold freshness filled his lungs and then he felt the same raw ecstasy surge through every artery and to the end of every finger. His feet crossed the threshold at the end of the bridge.

Typical now that his legs didn’t want to slow. Every muscle groaned as he came to a stop. The sopping wet floor mop that was Poker flopped to the ground on the side of the pavement, and although Alexis felt the same need he knew if he sat down right now he wouldn’t be getting up again.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he shouldn’t be swearing, a waste of vital oxygen. “ _Shit_. Argggh.” But it made him feel better, though. It really did. Dizziness struck and he leaned forward with his palms on his knees. His stomach rocked.

“Fuck,” he moaned again, swaying back in to a crouch and burying his head in to the crook of his arm. And then backwards in to a sit. In a puddle. And then on to his back. On a public pavement.

Honestly he didn’t care what he was lying on, but his legs couldn’t hold him anymore. And the icy puddle water was soothing the tense muscles in his back. It was nice.

He could lie here forever, he realised. Everything hurt and it felt amazing- numb and sore and his whole body pounding with his exhilarated heartbeat.

_Masochist_ , Woj’s voice said in his head; and he out-loud laughed. 

Poker’s paws scrabbled at his side and on to his chest. Her fur was soaked through but so was Alexis so it was fine. With some difficulty, he lifted a heavy arm and patted her head.

“New record,” he wheezed, “good dog.”

Ugh. Enough muscle action. He let it drop to the ground again. Rain water trickled in to his mouth as he gaped for air.

Poker whined and combat-crawled further on to his chest to lick at his chin.

“You sound like my coach, Poker. ‘ _Never lie down after training or you’ll seize up’_. Ugh.” It was true that as he attempted to sit up entire portions of his body felt like set concrete blocks. Very cold, very set concrete blocks.

Using the dog’s fur for leverage he hauled himself upright. A car whizzed past. Alexis knew he looked pathetic as he wobbled, hunched and limping, towards the traffic light.

The traffic light pole was good. He used it for support when he reached for his ankle and pulled it behind in to a quad stretch. _Good_. He could practically see the tension dribble out with the rain, and bonus: he now had at least one fully-functioning knee.

Progress home was slow and freezing. The rain didn’t relent. Inside his chest cavity he was still buzzing from his run but it wasn’t enough anymore to warm him and his fingers felt numb. Once in the foyer of their apartment block, Poker shook herself dry- starting from the end of her tail and shimming up her whole body sending water spraying around the hall.

“Like our neighbours don’t already hate us enough,” Alexis told her. Not that it mattered- she already looked delighted with herself.

Living on the tenth floor meant that the elevator ride took about four years, and that whenever it broke down they generally didn’t leave the place. Also- by the time they reached the top the lift distinctly smelled of wet dog, and sadly, Alexis was aware that at least half of that was probably due to the smell coming from him. His shoes still squelched when he walked over to their door, so he took them off before he stepped inside.

Warm, _warm_ heat washed over him. The scent of oven chips and chicken wings hung in the hallway. Oh Jesus, he was _starving_. On the hall mat he began to pull off his sopping running gear. “Stay,” he said to Poker, who didn’t need telling twice as she rolled over on to the mat beside him. “I know,” he cooed, “I know, you were _very_ _good_. Yes.” Her tail began to thump and her eyes closed to bask in the compliments, so he couldn’t stop. “Yes, _you_ _are_.”

“You back? How was it?” Marc’s voice said, making Alexis look up.

“Baltic,” Alexis replied as he noticed his towel in Marc’s hands. He reached for the hem of his Skins and peeled it up and over his head. It was quite satisfying actually, pulling off the wet and feeling his skin muddle over the sudden lack of insulation. He let it fall to the floor with a squelchy slopping noise.

“We’re going ice skating,” Marc announced. “Post midterm celebration. Neymar’s bringing his Economics friends. Woj is bringing himself.”

On cue, from the kitchen there was a distinct Woj announcement of “Dance, monkey! _Dance_!” followed by a Neymar yelp of indignation.

Marc briefly twisted his head in the direction of the kitchen, and turned back with a broad, amused smile on his face. “Your skin is literally grey, Lex. You should learn just to not exercise, like the rest of us.”

Alexis didn’t know why but he shivered when Marc’s eyes swept up his bare torso. He knew as much that it had nothing to do with the cold. He didn’t want to know that it had something to do with the full body flashback he was having to Marc’s head massage.

“Right, Imma shower.” He rubbed his arms to get the blood going. “Hand over the towel, Bartra.”

Marc’s face split in to a grin. “Who said it was for you?” He leaned over and addressed the dog. “Come here, girl!” He held the towel open. “Let’s dry you off!”

Poker’s reflexes were better than Alexis’s, who could only watch in dismay as delighted sopping wet muddy dog was enveloped in what was so definitely Alexis’s lovely clean dry fluffy towel.

“Putting it to its proper use,” Marc said innocently, referring to the Arsenal logo printed on it. He glanced up at Alexis and laughed a wicked cackle of a laugh.

Alexis cursed himself for not spotting the Marc Bartra Scheme a mile off. He stood, dumbfounded- one arm extended as If he could have stopped what happened with magical psychic powers.

“Arsehole,” he declared. He stomped towards the bathroom where his true love: a wonderfully warm shower, waited for him to plot his revenge in.

  


  


* * *

  


  


  


  


Basti’s foot slid off the couch and he jerked awake. The television flickered horrible obtrusive rays of light and Basti realised that they must have missed at least half the movie, what movie exactly he couldn’t remember.

It has Daniel Day-Lewis in it, he remembered vaguely. We picked one with Daniel Day-Lewis in it, specifically so we wouldn’t fall asleep. Oops.

He tried to sit up but belatedly realised that Lukas was draped across him.

In future, he noted, we should not lie down when watching movies. An odd sense of déjà vu crept up on him as he thought that- like they’d proposed this resolution before. Had they really become that old and boring that evenings now consisted of them… sleeping?

Lukas grumbled in his sleep and dug his fingers in to Basti’s shirt, turning his head and smearing drool over Basti’s chest.

Basti reclined again, and decided to try and half-watch the remainder of the film. Sleeping Lukas might as well be a sleeping walrus, he was never going to wake him, and he was never going to be able to push him off, either.

His resolution to try and watch the end of the movie lasted until Lukas squirmed again, butting his head off Basti’s jaw. One foot drew up the inside of Basti’s thigh, pulling his track pants up from his ankle and replacing them with warm Lukas sock, pressing in to his skin. Basti’s was processing how pleasing that feeling was when Lukas’s elbow jabbed in to his liver and he just about swallowed his yelp of pain.

Gritting his teeth, he tugged Lukas’s arm so it hung by his hip instead. Lukas made another sighing noise and Basti wondered desperately how long he’d be stuck here.

He thought that, but his hand had already started to smooth through the thistly strands of Lukas’s short hair. He let it pull a little bit just at his temples, tilting Lukas’s face towards him- in all its splendour: jaw slack, dribble running down his chin, some eyebrow hairs ruffled all in the wrong directions. The loud mucusy drub of an interrupted snore sounded from his throat. Garlic bread breath. Ugh.

He could live with being old and boring, he decided, drawing his thumb along the edge of Lukas’s ear: as long as he got to do it with Lukas.

Honestly, when he’d been all for turning down Miro’s dinner invitation earlier- “I don’t mind his toy boy, but I like getting words in edgeways sometimes too you know”- this eventuality must have been at play in the back of his mind somewhere.

With a sigh, he turned his attention back to the film, letting his fingers draw tentatively back over Lukas’s temple. It’s not like they didn’t need it. They _were_ tired all the time, and now that Lukas was always at work Basti rarely saw him.

As he watched the dancing lights more than the picture on the screen an odd thought stirred.

Lukas _did_ spend a lot of time at work. And what paperwork couldn’t be done at home?  When they’d done research together they’d become well versed in how to move around the house without distracting the working other half. Lukas knew this. Basti knew this. They were proud of it.

And Lukas slept a lot at weekends. Many naps. Lukas slept a lot anyway, but now it was because he was up in the mornings before Basti and rarely went to bed ahead of him at night. And those worn-out silences: were they sad silences? Basti thought back, and yes- maybe he had been eating less too.

Was he sick? Basti wondered curiously. No: Lukas was the worst patient in the world. A cramp in his little toe was enough to constitute a sick day and a doctor’s appointment. Illness didn’t explain the late nights at the office.

Maybe it was nothing. Probably nothing.

So if it was nothing, why were his lips shaking when he reached out now to kiss the crown of Lukas’s head? Why was he gripping him so tight? Why was there sudden fear, real and cold, gathering at the thought of Lukas with someone else?

_Stupid_ , he told himself. _What a stupid conclusion to jump to. Why would you even think that? He’s happy with you. The entity of LukasAndBasti is the envy of everyone you know. He’s not avoiding bed to avoid_ you, _and he most certainly isn’t_ claiming _to_ _be working late, even though that is the classic excuse_.

_No. What an insane thought. An insane, crazy thought. Just such a-_

“Jesus,” he hissed, as panic climbed up his throat. He clapped one hand to his mouth to try and swallow it back down again. This was the wine speaking. This was the wine and the late hour. _Cut it out, Basti._ _Don’t be an idiot. You two have been through so much. This is the wrong time to crack._

Why was the fear of losing Lukas suddenly so _sharp_?

Lukas chose that moment to jerk awake. His knee hit Basti’s hip and he shrieked, and he felt a traitorous tear spill down his face.  As Lukas scrambled upright he tried to wipe it away before he noticed, but Lukas noticed everything.

“Sorry!” He rubbed at the edge of Basti’s hip with the palm of his hand; as though that was hurting him. Basti reasoned it was the logical conclusion from someone who had been in such a deep sleep. “Would you like me to kiss it better?” He grinned sluggishly and yawned. Basti laughed despite himself, but that only opened the floodgates for the god damn. Crying.

He rubbed furiously at his face, and Lukas looked at him, perplexed. Then he looked at the television.  Realisation dawned across his features, and Basti knew and then felt bad because that wasn’t even it. “You should have woken me up when the scenes started getting weepy.” Obviously taking back his apology, he prodded at the inside of Basti’s knee where he knew an old bruise was lingering. “I can’t believe you were going to let me miss out- you know how much I love a good cry.”

Sadly, it was true. Lukas’s favourite box set was Gilmore Girls.

Basti laugh-cried and poked back. “Like I could wake you. An earthquake couldn’t wake you.”

Lukas laughed and reached out to pull Basti’s mouth to his. The kiss was meant to be comforting and lazy and soft when Lukas’s lean body stretched to lie against his but it just made Basti feel worse.

“Hold on,” Lukas got to his feet, “let me get more wine, and then we can rewind it.” Basti was still swabbing at his face with his sleeve when he sat back down with the half-empty bottle of red.

“Hey,” Basti started. He stretched to touch the soft cotton of Lukas’s t-shirt where it collected at his collar. “Are you okay?”

Lukas looked at him curiously for a second, and then added another generous drop to Basti’s already pretty substantial glass.

“No,” Basti laughed. He inched closer. “I mean it. Are you alright? With, y’know- work and all.”

Lukas narrowed his eyes in jest. “I sense a trick question,” he teased, mouth stretching in to a dopey grin.

Basti smiled feebly and shook his head. “No trick question. I just want to know. If you’re alright. If… if _we’re_ alright.”

Lukas paused. He shifted suddenly around to face Basti, lifted his hands and let them cradle Basti’s cheeks. The gentle support of Lukas’s fingers sent an injection of warmth in to his lungs.

“The movie really spooked you, huh?” he murmured. Basti didn’t know how to answer. _You are so ridiculous_ , he told himself. _Stupid_. He looked down at his hand on the outside of Lukas’s knee, where he’d reached out to steady him, or himself, he couldn’t be sure.

How could he say it? _You’ve been acting weird?_ But he hadn’t, not really. _You’re not home enough?_ It wasn’t like they didn’t work on the same campus.

“It’s weird,” he croaked. “I just had a feeling.” He still had a feeling.

Lukas frowned. His thumb traced a half-circle around the corner of Basti’s mouth. . “What kind of feeling?” he asked quietly. 

Basti’s throat closed and he shook his head again. “A feeling,” he repeated. “Just a feeling.” He couldn’t say it. He could barely envisage the possibility of a life outside their little urban paradise; much less say it out loud.

“Hmmm,” Lukas hummed. Lines Basti had never seen before had suddenly spun across his features. He tipped forward and placed a kiss at the corner of Basti’s mouth.  The gentle over lap of their lips made his heart shudder, like it had for most of his life. “Listen,” Lukas whispered, and then stopped. He swallowed hard and stopped again. His fingers pressed in to Basti’s cheeks.

Basti’s pulse quickened. Did he not trust him? He did. He trusted Lukas more than he trusted himself.

“What?” he breathed against his cheek.

Lukas kissed him again- his thumb tracing along the edge of his jaw- and sat back.

“We should probably watch something else,” he said, gently. Sharp silver glowed from the normally soft azure of his eyes. 

  


  


* * *

  


  


  


  


“Marco,” Mario said desperately, “grow a pair.”

Marco had hesitated at the entrance to the ice rink, one hand on the railing at the side but both feet firmly on the mat on the non-frigid side of the gate.

“What if I fall?” he whimpered. “What if someone skates over my fingers, and chops them off? I like my fingers, Mario.”

Mario pointed behind him where a peewee lesson was gleefully zipping towards the exit, buzzing around and around in erratic circles like booted little bees. “If they can do it, you can- they’re like, five. I don’t see any of them falling over and getting their fingers chopped off.”

“They have lower centres of gravity,” Marco said, his grip visibly tightening. “Doesn’t count. Also they’re wearing helmets. Can I have a helmet?”

“We still here?” Rob skated past them. Backwards, because he was Rob and if there was anything way he could show off, he most definitely would, and he would do it while looking like someone had just declared him Sultan of Brunei. Mario _itched_ to challenge him but, lo, he had a boyfriend to babysit. “Grow a pair, Marco.”

Mario let his eyebrows lift and looked pointedly at Marco. _See_?

Marco’s expression was not unlike that of a stray cat in a soggy box- cornered, sullen and like the universe had decided to pelt him with ice water. His lips drew back in a silent snarl which he directed at Rob. Rob waved gleefully and with a _whoosh_ , he turned and was already at the other side of the rink before Mario could blink twice.

“Why didn’t you just say you’d never ice skated before?” Mario asked. “We could have stayed in and got pizza.” And maybe banged. A bit.

“Because _you_ wanted to,” Marco said forlornly.

Mario could have argued against that but, one: he _had_ wanted to. He had really wanted to. He hadn’t been able to stop talking, all week, about how much he wanted to; and two: if Marco had abstained, there was no way he would have gone without him, and Marco knew he’d still have to listen to how much Mario really, _really_ wanted to go skating.

He allowed himself to glide closer and held out his hand.

“Come on,” he coaxed softly. “I said I’d teach you. Imma teach you. Take my elbow.”

Marco fastened one hand to the angle of Mario’s arm, and then, tentatively, a second. So he still wasn’t actually on the ice yet, Mario reasoned, but it was a start.

“Now,” he said gently, “first boot.” Marco clung and then leaned every single ounce of his weight on Mario. Mario kept his face straight, but suddenly wasn’t overly confident of his ability to keep his balance if he was going to be practically piggy-backing Marco around.

After several seconds of hesitation Marco lifted one leg and let it unsteadily rest on the ice. Mario nodded in encouragement and then Marco’s second leg followed.

Almost immediately Marco’s two feet lurched from under him, but Mario’s reflexes were faster. With his free arm he grabbed under Marco’s upper arm and gritted his teeth while Marco found his balance. When he eventually did, it was hilarious: Marco was bent double with his butt in the air, wearing an expression not dissimilar to someone about to parachute from a plane, maybe, but not ice skate.

Maybe Mario was being harsh. But he’d been skating for so long he could have probably done it in his sleep.

Anyway, he was now bent double too, but with laughter.

“It’s not funny.” Oh, but Marco did look like he might be smiling.

“It’s your finest moment,” Mario told him. He planted what he hoped was an encouraging peck on Marco’s mouth. “Look, you’re doing great.”

He would do anything for Marco. Even lie. But it worked- Marco did brighten considerably.

Mario could lie about that, but under no circumstance would he be reassuring Marco that he wouldn’t fall. Marco was going to fall at some point tonight, and he hadn’t a hope of convincing him that it was part of the learning curve. It didn’t help that Marco had the worst hand-eye coordination of any human Mario had ever encountered.

But they’d get to that.

“You can take the railing again if you want.” Gratefully, Marco reached out and fixed his hand to the bar. His other sunk further in to Mario’s jacket.

“Okay.” Now to get him to actually move semi-independently. God, Mario was exhausted already. “Now just,” he turned so they stood side-by-side, “I want you to do this with your feet, right?” He let his own part to a forty-five degree angle. “First position. You know, like in ballet.”

“I don’t know anything about ballet,” Marco said, in the kind of rush that made Mario suspect that he did, actually, know.

“Bro, you _literally_ have no reason to prove your manhood to me,” Mario exclaimed.  “I _know_ ,” he gestured at Marco’s crotch in his frustration, and Marco’s cheeks went pink, it was rather satisfying. “So come on: first position.”

Marco obeyed without further protest.

  


  


* * *

  


  


  


  


“D’Artagnan!” Alexis slid gracefully to a halt beside Mats, who was leaning against the side of the rink looking his normal majestic self with an extra side dish expression of effortless superiority. He looked at Alexis in distaste when Alexis skidded so as to send ice chips all over Mats’s jeans.

“So funny,” Mats said drily, and Alexis laughed delightedly. “No, really. Like no one has ever used that one before.”

“I have to share out my bearded greetings between you and Aaron at work,” Alexis offered, “I’m sorry, there are only so many out there, you know?”

“Believe me,” Mats sighed. “I know. What can I do you for, Sanchez?”

“Well, for a start: if you want to stop the Musketeer references, colloquial English.”

“Whatever.”

“That’s better. Okay,” Alexis moved over beside him and pointed in the same direction Mats was staring in. “Them,” he said, to the two figures inching their way around the perimeter of the enclosure. One was small and steady and laughing and the other was taller with a butter-yellow crest of hair atop his short-back-and-sides, wobbling and most definitely not enjoying himself. “How?”

“It’s great to see you too,” Mats continued. “How were your midterms? We didn’t even get that bad of a one from Lahm. Do you know, I swear he’s mellowing a bit? Rob made a really bad-the worst- economics pun in his presentation the other day and he actually laughed. By the way: whose idea was the ice skating? And what do we have to do to just stay in a get drunk the next time?”

Alexis laughed. “Nah,” he nudged Mats with his elbow. “You don’t get to do that- pretend to be actually interested in my life- and cover up your trade secrets. Spill. How did you fix the two of them up?”

Alexis had met the Economics guys through Neymar and Oscar, who had both gone to the same high school as Danté. Since in first year everyone moved in giant schools of nervous class groups, when they mingled, they mingled with them all. Their timetables were so packed and the campus so huge that they rarely, if ever, got to mix as a group these days. But they all shared this whacked sense of adventure derived from stir-craziness and boredom that meant when they did, it was rarely to get drunk, and normally to participate in any activity that didn’t involve them sitting around. Like ice skating.

Besides. Alexis was getting old, he was nastily reminded of every beer he drank the morning after every party. This definitely didn’t used to happen. His liver probably still hadn’t recovered from the abuse it received during his first three years of college.

Mats turned and looked at him with- okay, Alexis could say “surprise”, but Mats was never surprised- suspicion. “Why?” Then his gaze grew even more wary. “ _Who_?”

“You tell me, and I’ll tell you.”

Mats shrugged. “Fine. There wasn’t that much to it really. That friendship was never platonic. We basically just gave Marco a kick up the butt. The rest they figured out themselves.”

“Elaborate. When you say,” Alexis dusted ice from the edge of his coat, “… ‘kick up the butt’, what did that entail, _exactly_?”

“Nuh-uh,” Mats reached up and tweaked at Alexis’s cheek with a cold glove. “Your turn.”

“Fine,” Alexis swatted his hand away. “But, really, I need more than ‘ _we gave him a kick up the butt’_.” He nodded at the other end of the rink. “Them.”

Marc and Neymar were, to put it simply, giving Woj hell. It was like watching two kittens teasing a large, angry vulture. Ney would skate up to Woj, jab him in the ribs and whizz away again and as Woj would lunge after him, Marc would appear and tug back on his jacket. It would have been pathetic and dangerous if Woj wasn’t better at skating than actually walking. Two against one was turning out to be a pretty even match.

Mats squinted. “A threesome?” he remarked lightly.

“Ha,” Alexis said drily. “Marc and Ney.”

Mats really did look surprised now.

“That would be weird,” he noted, unhelpfully.

“Totally plausible.”

“ _Weird_.”

Alexis was surprised at this exceptional frustration that he now felt in Mats’s direction.

“Marc’s the half I need to convince,” he added. Come on, he wanted to say, just agree with me. Make my life easier.

Mats smirked. “So if Oscar got Eden, and then the two of them shack up, what about poor Sanchez? Who does he get?”

“The dog,” Alexis replied dully. Then he remembered that he was also playing second fiddle there, too.

Mats shrugged, just about trapping his laughter behind his teeth. “At least you won’t have to worry about back-talk. And everything can be solved with liberally served food.”

Alexis rolled his eyes.

“Quiet, Hoe-mmels. He Who Cannot Keep It In His Pants.”

Mats obliged. He opened his mouth thoughtfully. Then he closed it again.

Alexis tapped his fingers off the side of the rink expectantly. He was waiting for the Mats retort to that one. Mats never normally let him down there.

“Actually,” Mats blew a curl of his unruly hair from where it hung over his eye. “It’s funny that you should say it like that. Maybe not so much anymore, you know?”

Alexis did a double take. “But _you_ can’t settle down. You’re _you_.”

“Yeah, well,” Mats said quietly. Alexis could have sworn that pink patches suddenly scattered the tops of his cheeks. “Life is weird.”

Alexis blinked. “Erik!” He yelled, waving widely in the direction of the tiny blonde cute machine.

“Oh my God.”  Mats hid his face in his hands. “Shut up. I am never telling you anything again.”

Alexis gave him a consoling pat on the back. “It’s okay,” he assured, “you can’t blame me; we _never_ get to ruffle your feathers. So,” he said, as Erik tore away from the others and coasted towards them, looking puzzled. “Tell me about Mats’ betrothed.”

“Oh my God,” Mats moaned again.

Erik looked startled. “What do you mean?” he asked Alexis. Then, “wait,” he looked accusingly at Mats. “This isn’t about Starbucks guy, is it?”

“Starbucks guy?” Alexis said cheerfully, angling a poke in to the space under Mats’ elbow.  “Oh my _God_.” Now it was Alexis’s turn to exclaim it. “ _Classic_.”

Mats didn’t raise his head from the palms of his hands.

“He’s been arriving late to class with Starbucks for two weeks now,” Erik continued, eyes shining. “So one morning we got Kev to follow him.”

Mats let loose a groan worthy of any decent death bed. They ignored him.

“Does Starbucks guy have a name?” Alexis rubbed his hands together with glee.

“Benni, apparently. Benni Howedes. He’s pretty cute.” Erik threw devastated Mats an amused look before he winked.

“ _Oh_!” Alexis exclaimed, barking delighted laughter. “ _Hoe_ -mmels. I get it! I’m _brilliant_!”

“What?” Erik asked, frowning.

“Guh,” Mats said, punching him in the arm. “Congratulations. You blew up your own mind.”

“But is he good enough for our Mats?” Alexis ruffled his hair, evening out Mats’ revenge strike.

“Go away.”

“Honestly, bro- the most surprising thing is that you can afford two whole weeks of Starbucks. I never knew you were that loaded.”

“I…” Mats paused, and then sighed. “Fine. Since last Thursday they’ve been on the house. Okay?”

Erik whistled at this revelation. “Well _done_ ,” he said in amazement.

“What a catch,” Alexis agreed. “Free coffee in exchange for what, though?”

“Conversation,” Mats replied simply, and then smacked Alexis across the back of his head when he sniggered.

Alexis had ducked, but was no match for Mats’s ninja skills- even when there was no real malicious intent behind his blows. Mats had clipped his ear pretty hard and made him tumble off balance and on to his knees on the ice.

“Fucking. _Ow_ ,” he snorted out, dignity in shreds, clutching his sides with laugher. He wondered if he was laughing on a reflex. He’d definitely hit that ice hard, it had properly made his teeth rattle.

Two hands curled around his elbow and heaved him to his feet.

“What am I missing?” Marc asked, grinning. _His lips are super pale,_ Alexis thought. _But I can still see their outline. God, they are rather full, aren’t they?_ Then: _but Marc, where did you come from? I swear you were at the other side of the rink five seconds ago_. He must have hit that ice _hard_.

He blinked and coughed out another laugh. There was an area around the angle of his elbow that was now sweltering at the level of his skin and making it stick to the slick polyester of his coat, and he blamed Marc’s hands for still being there and not relaxing their grip in the slightest.

 “Mats is getting married,” he announced, because he was dazed and didn’t know what else to say that wasn’t _please don’t let go_. Marc gave him a face splitting grin: the skin creased around the corners of his eyes and his irises took on a platinum shine.

“Good,” Marc said. “So is Woj.”

“Shut up,” Mats said.

“Fuck off,” Woj agreed. He came to a stop on Marc’s other side and nudged in to Erik accidentally-on-purpose. Which Alexis thought was unfair, since Erik was the last person any of them were going to get a rise out of. The kid was unruffled-able and ridiculously adorable. All attempts at poking bounced off him like he was some sort of cherub-faced beach ball.

Mats jabbed his finger in to the spaces between Alexis’s ribs until he turned. “I literally,” and Alexis was caught off-guard by the weird look he was getting from him, “asked you to stop calling me a floozy.”

Alexis squinted, trying to read him. Smug? Knowing? Calculating? Alexis settled on just plain rude.

“And all I said,” Woj interjected, “was that if I slept with the guy I wouldn’t kick him out of the bed immediately afterwards.”

Alexis turned his head back so fast it almost snapped off his neck. “Who?” he demanded. Woj shook his head defiantly.

“Lewandowski,” Marc said, with a wink. The breath that carried his words warmed Alexis’s cheek.

“Really?” Alexis asked to the sight of Woj angrily massaging his temples.

“Shut up.”

“No but what kind of shit-stirring children would you two raise? Honestly, I am only thinking of the children, Schezza.”

“ _Lex_!”

“Can I be a best man?”

“Can _I_ be a best man?” Marc said across him, to Mats.

Mats snickered. “But I didn’t even get _invited_ to yours,” he started, gesturing to Alexis’ elbow, still being supported by Marc’s careful grasp. Alexis fully expected him to let go, but instead he placed his head on Alexis’s shoulder.

“Shall we honeymoon in Venice?” he asked with mock devotion, winding both of his long arms around Alexis’ and looking up at him with silvery feral eyes.

“Um,” Alexis said, slightly startled and uncomfortable at the direction this had suddenly taken.   _Venice_ , he thought. _What even is there in Venice? Think of the movies_. _What is even in the movies?_ “I’m allergic to pigeons?”

Admittedly, it wasn’t his greatest line. But it did crack that ridiculous fake lovestruck expression on Marc’s face; and it made him laugh in to Alexis’ shoulder and hold on a bit tighter. Alexis indulged himself and let his head dip so he brushed the blue-black of Marc’s hair with his lips. It left a strange soapy feeling on his tongue, a chemical taste that was almost but not quite strawberries. _Shampoo_ , his brain told him.

“Get a room,” Woj’s voice said. But for Woj, it was strangely gracious.

“Cute!” Erik chirped.

“Let me know when you need that kick up the butt,” Mats said cheerfully.

And Alexis didn’t understand what he meant. Not then.

  


  


* * *

  


  


  


  


James licked the coffee from his teeth. Ugh. It wasn’t often he resorted to espressos, but this was a several-espresso problem. And it wasn’t hard to reflect on that, sizing up the army of empty cups on the table in front of him and Chicha.

“Fuck,” Chicha said.

“Hmm,” James agreed. His teeth were buzzing in his mouth. Caffeine chorused in his ears. Chicha’s knee twitched in a frantic rhythm: tap-tap-tap-tap against the table leg, causing teeny tiny earthquakes in the dregs of coffee foam.

“I will never be more nervous than this,” Chicha said. He ran slender fingers down his face. Peaky, James decided, wasn’t the word for it. “Not the birth of my first child. Wedding day. Nah. This is it.”

“We’ve survived before. Remember Cecil Lavery last year? That was worse.”

Chicha snorted and mumbled something that was probably, “mere _regional_ competition”. James wanted to mock him, he really did- because when it came down to it, this Moot Court competition was absolutely no different than any they had conquered before and the case they’d been given even looked like it had two very clear, actually debatable sides. But he just felt so _nervous_.

“The Unwinnables,” he pointed out. “That was us. We won the un-winnable moot. At Cecil Lavery, last year. And this one is winnable.”

Chicha lifted one of the Lilliputian coffee cups and made a disgusted face at the last of the ochre syrup at the bottom. His lips were pressed in to a thin line. “Then why,” he said, “do I feel like I am about to shit out my stomach?”

“Don’t do that,” James said quickly, feeling a smile creep up his lips. “You’ll ruin your pants.”

Chicha bared his teeth at him. James decided that it was affectionate, at a stretch.

It was strange, but nothing felt wrong about this- early morning, their poky flat, and too much coffee. This was his favorite kind of normal- stress, pressure; he thrived on it. So did Chicha, although he pretended not to.

“You ready, bro?” James held his arm across the table.

“If you are, I can be,” Chicha promised, taking it. He drew his index finger in a ticklish line up James’s palm as they shook, and James jerked his hand free.

“Bastard!”

Chicha went from sad hamster to Machiavellian in actually zero seconds.  His eyes may have even gleamed red, like a pre-metal crushing Magneto.

“I actually hate you,” James retorted, cradling his hand close to him like he’d been stabbed, not tickled.

“Remind me,” Chicha drawled, examining his nails, “to drop the fact that you are _that_ ticklish in to the next conversation I have with Kroos.”

If Chicha was to be believed, he’d taken to name dropping James a lot whenever he spoke to Toni. Especially since James had returned home from the night at the burger restaurant and Chicha had succeeded in out-loud intentionally misinterpreting the invitation, to reflect James’s misinterpreting it internally. Obviously. (“We literally just ate together!” “He paid!” “ _It was not a date_!” “ _I wasn’t the one who just called it that Rodriguez!_ ”)

James wished he hadn’t mentioned it. He had liked having something just for him and Toni, like the way Toni smiled at him in class sometimes when James was caught watching him- thin lines of his lips tilting upwards, a soft glow in his ice-blue eyes. It was nice to think that, maybe, they were friends. Because it was all they’d ever be. And James should probably stop trying to commit the contours of Toni’s back under a shirt to memory during scheduled lesson time.

“You wouldn’t.” But Chicha also didn’t look nervous any more, and James was always willing to indulge him if that was the result. Chicha being nervous made _him_ nervous.

“I would,” Chicha smirked.

“Okay,” James said, kicking him under the table. But not too hard. “It’s a long way still to six o’clock. Let’s go through their probable first argument again.”

  


  


* * *

  


  


  


  


Mario’s hair around Marco’s fingers was literally the only thing keeping him tied to the ground. Unfortunately, Mario was already past that stage: he had his head in Marco’s lap, sunglasses skewed across his face just enough so Marco could see one closed eye.

“If they didn’t take attendance for this class,” Rob moaned. His head was on the desk. “If they didn’t take attendance for this class I would be so deep in my duvet right now. Like…” he waved his hand limply in the air as he searched for his analogy for several seconds, then gave up. “Whose dumb idea was it? BYOB-freaking-ice-skating.”

“Yours,” Mario mumbled from somewhere near Marco’s knee.

“Dumb,” Marco echoed, for emphasis. His stomach was pitching and yawing like a two-door Fiat on a particularly pot-holey dirt track.

When the bartender had made the last call eight whole stupidly long hours ago and they’d had to make that will-we-won’t-we-club decision, this had even been a dumb idea. And, well, they’d been past opinions on their decision making when they’d left the club at half past seven this morning to make it to this class for eight. Marco had felt on top of the world until twenty five minutes in, which was around about the time his hangover had hit about as gently as a stampeding elephant. The others weren’t far behind.

Mario’s hand patted back across his head until it reached Marco’s, bronzed fingers circling around Marco’s pathetically pale wrist.

“Nuuurgh,” he agreed.

“Don’t throw up.” Strange council from Marco, given that was exactly what he felt like doing.

“Fear,” Mats was muttering. “Fear so strong. Oh God. I called him, right? I called him. Shit. How many times did I call him?”

It was refreshing to see Mats in a state, hair pulled down over his Wayfarers.

“Enough times to probably excuse you from stopping by for your freebie this morning.”

Sentences. Sentences were effort. Marco considered shutting up for a bit.

Mats peeked out at Marco from under his hair, ashen-faced. Marco couldn’t even see his eyes and he knew they were panic stricken. “I _what_?”

“I want to take the piss,” Rob groaned. “I really, really want to take the piss out of Mats about last night and Benni Boy, but like, I _can’t_.”

“Nothing says “love” like two a.m. phone calls when you do the morning shift in a coffee shop,” Marco tried. “Or three a.m. ones.”

The remaining colour drained from Mats’s cheeks. It made Marco feel slightly better. Maybe later he’d tell Mats that Benni had picked up.

He felt a bit guilty then. He liked the red-cheeked, fluffy haired Howedes that the un-settleable Mats had fallen head-over-heels for. It felt wrong to tease him about something that was just, somehow, so _right_. Marco had only hung out with him once, an incident involving Marco getting his ass thoroughly handed to him at ping pong, and Marco had liked him for it _immediately_.

“I am going to vomit,” Kevin declared.

Mario pressed his nails in to Marco’s wrist.

“Hey,” Marco murmured, looking down. He stroked the very edge of Mario’s lips, just where he could reach them with the tip of his thumb. “You okay?” He liked these shoes. He hoped Kevin’s declaration hadn’t triggered anything.

When he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Mario’s temple, his skin burned under his mouth.

“You need to go,” he whispered, serious, low in to Mario’s ear. “And you just say. Okay?”

Mario squeezed his eyes shut and moaned softly. Marco wondered if it would have to be one of those pre-emptive evacuations. For the sake of his shoes.

He had to close his eyes for a minute when he lifted his head again. This was probably what it felt like to have the bends.

“We are so lucky that Kloppo doesn’t give a shit,” he croaked, referring to their lecturer. He had caught him looking earlier, almost with sympathy, as their bench struggled to remain upright. He hadn’t even questioned why they were all decked out in sunglasses- protection for their sensitive brains from the sharp glare of fluorescent tubing torture that passed as the theatre lights. Maybe the reason was already obvious, truly- what kind of answer could you expect from brewery-scented, Men-In-Black-wannabe final years. Marco almost liked him for it, then remembered that he was the one who had set a mandatory eight a.m. class.

“Now we know why it’s mandatory.” Game Theory was by far their coolest subject: using mathematics to guess reactions to certain situations, and was the easiest to get out of bed for by a long shot. Manuel Neuer had won his Nobel Prize with game theory. Normally Marco loved it. Normally Marco could keep up with it.

But not today.

He looked down at his refill pad in front of him and the hazy three lines of notes he’d tried to take. Right now he was proud that he had even been able to hold a pen steady, but in the kind of way that he just knew they would amount to shit for later revision.

Mario turned a warning shade of green. Marco decided action needed to be taken. He could already smell that sickly sugary scent of half-digested vodka. It worried him that he was familiar with it.

He moved to the side, resting Mario’s head briefly on the bench. Rob didn’t look like he enjoyed being jostled, but Marco didn’t care, this was after all partially for this benefit. He clambered ungracefully over the back of the seat, all arms and legs, hoisting Mario after him- one hand curled under his shoulder.

Somehow he made it outside the building just in time for Mario to puke rancid neon orange in to the fountain.

  


  


* * *

  


  


  


  


Lukas often wished that the story of him and Basti was romantic. That their eyes had met across a crowded teeny-bopper disco and Lukas had known then that Basti was the one.

 It wasn’t like that at all. Truth? The first time they’d ever interacted- outside occasional glances from inside their shared fifth period English class- was when Lukas sold Basti a tub of extra large sweet popcorn from the other side of the counter during his weekend job at the cinema.

His first thought was to question his popcorn flavour choices. Sweet popcorn being for weaklings. Obviously.

His second was, rather unkindly: “well, if it isn’t potato face.”

Bastian still found this hilarious.

“ _Leaving_?” Dean Casillas was saying. His words brought Lukas back to the room. “But… if you’re sure.”

Lukas placed the letter with his thirty days notice on the desk. “I start next semester.”

Casillas stared at it with caution for several seconds, like it might burst in to flames or something and leave a tattoo of Lukas’s scorn forever imprinted on the shiny, shiny mahogany.

“And,” Casillas eventually cleared his throat. “Bastian? He’s… okay with you moving to London?”

“He’s fine with it,” Lukas said abruptly. Well. He would be fine with it.

Casillas’s features took on a sympathetic expression that softened the contours of his face. His brown eyes went all big and chivalrous. “We’ll be sorry to see you go,” he offered. “Not that there’s anything I can say that will get you to change your mind?”

_He says it_ , Lukas thought, _like I wasn’t mere months from redundancy_.

“I’m sure,” he replied coldly.

  


  


* * *

  


  


  


  


Toni couldn’t sit down. He couldn’t. He couldn’t sit in front of the kid, he couldn’t look in to those eyes, he could barely even think his _name_ anymore. He wanted to know why this had started. He wanted to badly to go back and rewind it all.

“Toni...?” James lifted one arm and it dropped again. He looked so pitifully worried that it raised a lump in Toni’s throat. Of course. Of _course_. James thought that he had done something _wrong_. That this was _his_ fault. He thought he was in trouble, because they’d made it to the next round of Maidens in a spectacularly convincing fashion and yet Toni had called him upstairs to this office to be alone with this right face on. And it was this realisation that made Toni sit down at the opposite side of the desk and finally face him.

 “You’re not in trouble, Rodriguez,” he started, a lot more calm than he felt. And then he stopped.

What now.

He’d woken up this morning, determined: You have to tell him, Toni. You have to get this out, and you have to do it now, before it goes any further. And so he was going to. He was. They were not going to leave this room until Toni had told James how he felt about him.

This had all seemed like a good idea this morning. It felt like a very, very bad idea right now. For starters: Toni didn’t do _feelings_ , really. It wasn’t like he’d never been with someone before or anything- it wasn’t that he was _cold_. It was just that whole bit where you had to get across how one person had taken over everything; like dubstep several decibels too loud echoing around the inside of your cranium. That had a lot to do with why this was bugging him: for the first time in his life, Toni had problems with articulation, and it was awful.

But he was Toni Kroos, master debater, Maiden’s winner three years solid. He had just assumed he could improvise. He couldn’t improvise this: not when this beautiful boy sat across from him- gorgeous, talented and unconditionally kind Rodriguez. He’d commanded all his attention, and had since that first time he’d fallen in to his life.  For a month now, his mind had been a mush-field of everything James: what he was thinking, the width of his smile, the tiny concentration crease in his brows, what the tight skin at his neck would feel like against his lips.

It was bad enough that it happened when James was actually, physically there: in class, where he could see him and actually have reason to observe these things. The problem was now that it happened _all_ the time: he had James on the brain when he was even doing the most mundane of shirt ironing or teeth washing.

God. James would just _smile_ at him sometimes when their eyes would meet, with this warmth and Toni had been all too willing to delude him himself with the notion that he couldn’t possibly be that happy to be smiling at everyone else. And Chicha would just throw his name around in conversation, like he _knew_ what was up, and just because he could. He wouldn’t even put it past him. Basically: Toni’s heartbeat was pretty damn erratic these days.

“Oh,” James said. He didn’t relax all that much. Toni guessed that he didn’t quite believe that he wasn’t in trouble.

“Well done,” he tried to smile, “you guys did great today.” _Lame, lame, lame,_ lame. Toni withered up internally. He had trouble getting across his emotions on a good day without sounding like total _spoon_ , and he was becoming more and more self-conscious of the fact. Well. Mostly he was self-conscious of the fact around James Rodriquez, Irrepressible Sunbeam of Light and Professional Charisma Oozer.

James looked adorably confused. It was almost worth it.

“I... know?” he answered, cautiously. _Why are we here_? Was actually the question.

“I wanted to congratulate you,” _man_ , so _lame_ , “and... ugh. Remind you. That no one’s got this far since... me.” He grinned. It failed.

“I know that too,” James offered. It didn’t take much to translate it to: and just how much of the punch did you have at the afters?

“And that it’s important. And, er, that focus is important.” He swallowed. “Okay? I know the midterms are over and you guys got through the first round, but try... try and not get over your head in study or... anything,” _anyone_ , “until the next round. Just for two weeks.” Forever, he wanted to say. Never, ever get distracted by anyone else, ever.

This was ridiculous. Why should he care if James already belonged to someone else? Stupid, unfounded feelings of possession over Bambi-eyed, painfully brilliant tutorial students.

Yet the twist in his chest at the thought told him why.

A grin split James’s face. “Okay. Focus. No distractions,” he gave Toni a mock salute. “I know the drill, captain.”

“It’s important,” Toni tried to stress. He couldn’t stress anything with the sight of James finally relaxing. The tension leaving the tendons of his neck. The strained lines leaving the edges of his smile. Finally. _Finally_. Toni thought with an ache: there was so much more he wanted, when it was just the two of them in his silent office, with the door shut and the quiet.

Then Toni’s stupid, _stupid_ mouth opened, and ruined it.

“I just... I care, you know?” _Oh God_. Okay, God, he was going to do this. “I care about how you do in this. It’s so important for what you want to be. And if reflects on me, too, you know. The administration didn’t have to make me a tutor this year, at twenty-three, and they did. I wouldn’t like to think I let you down. Let them down. Sometimes it’s like you don’t even realise the potential you have, just how talented you are, you know? Just... I care, okay? This competition... it’s about... everyone succeeding.” He nearly said “the two of us” but couldn’t bring himself to feel bad leaving Hernandez from the equation.

James’s ears were going pink and his eyes were growing very, very wide. “I, um,” he swallowed. “Thanks? I know it’s important to you. Sir,” he added in a rush.

Toni got hurriedly to his feet. “Okay,” he conceded. “I... I’ve said my bit.” _I’m not even drunk_ , he thought mournfully. _I cannot even blame this on alcohol_.

James smiled at him again. That smile that wrapped its way around his whole face. Toni wondered how James could consider smiling at him like that, so kindly, and so genuinely; after such spectacular word vomit.

“Focus, right?” he started, as he turned towards the door.

“Yeah,” Toni felt half-relieved. As half relieved as he could feel, given that he had accomplished nothing. If “making an idiot of yourself” could be counted as nothing, because now Toni wondered if James would ever speak to him again. Idiot. _Idiot_.

_What are you thinking_ , he wondered, watching James’ receding back. _Please help me out, here_.

James’s hand was on the door handle when he stopped. And Toni, half way across the room after him, stopped too.

“No distractions.” James said, as though something had only just occurred to him. His voice grew soft. When he looked at Toni his eyes were heavy, heavy like something weighed on the lids. His hand was still on the door handle when he asked: “okay, so that was a super weird pep talk.” Toni too late realised that James stood between him and his escape: said door. “What’s going on?”

There was a window behind Toni. They were on the fourth floor, and he didn’t know this strange host uni well and therefore what he’d be landing on, but death seemed like a reasonable trade to get out of this. Heat crept in a burning ring around his neck.

_I think I’m in love with you_ , Toni’s brain said, unhelpfully.

“Um,” his mouth said. Which was only marginally better, collaterally. It was raspy and barely there, and the swallow that came next was louder. He saw James watch his throat move as he did. The same heavy eyes fixed on it, and if Toni didn’t know any better…

Maybe Toni didn’t know any better. Because when James’s eyes lifted again they locked with his, Toni probably wouldn’t have been able to look away, even if he’d tried.

James’s hand fell from the door. Toni knew he shouldn’t, he knew he shouldn’t just as much as his leg muscles knew he should as they moved him forward. Right in front of James, right in his space. And James knew, James somehow knew and was waiting because his hands stretched around Toni’s face and then James pulled Toni against his mouth and then he kissed him. Toni just about remembered to close his eyes.

James’s lips were soft against Toni’s closed ones. And his neck was soft, when Toni raised one hand to cradle it. It was warmer than Toni’s- much, much warmer: to Toni’s relief. Toni’s fingers threaded through hair like silk. And then Toni’s body realised what he was doing and _surged_. He pressed against him, pressed hard so James had to back in to the doorway, so Toni could crush him against the solid, and so with a tiny gasp James’s mouth would open and Toni could kiss him properly.

Neither his brain nor his body could properly comprehend how he now had the thing he’d craved for so long. James. That he was sandwiched between Toni and the wall and Toni could _feel_ him- slight but strong, soft and solid all at once under his hands. James’s fingers trailed against his scalp, up to the crown of his head, to bring him closer- and his mouth was so wonderfully warm.

It was too good. It had to be too good. It had never been this good to be with anyone like this before.

He paused, shaking- his lip trapped between the sharp press of James’s teeth. They were still close. James’s eyelashes brushed his cheeks and he felt the heat of his breath when he let go. Toni had him pressed to the door but James was leaning back, his eyes slow to open, distracting Toni from the glisten of his lips.

James’s eyes were most certainly the most stunning sepia filtered galactic vortex Toni had ever laid eyes on, and now, never wanted to look away from.

He let out an unsteady breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in, and as his body trembled their lips brushed again. James brought his hand around to hold Toni’s cheek, thumbing at the edge of Toni’s mouth. He didn’t look like he felt the fear Toni felt. And Toni realised, as James’s eyes shined up at him, that he didn’t look like he feared anything at all.

“James...” Toni forced the word from his throat. It sounded hoarse. James’s thumb pressed hard in to his skin, so Toni tried again. It still sounded raw- it was a different word now. It had a whole new meaning.

Slowly, hesitantly, he moved closer; seared more of their bodies together. There was a hitch in James’s breath when he kissed the edge of his mouth, when he drew his lips across James’s cheek, pressed his name in to his neck. There was a certainty in the way James’s hands slid to Toni’s waist, took handfuls of the bottom of Toni’s shirt and tugged it free from his slacks, and his mouth searched for Toni’s ear.

“Stop thinking,” he whispered. “Let go.”

Toni let go.

  


  


* * *

  


  


  


  


When it came down to it, it was all Lukas’ doing: actually being vigilant and offering to do the dishes.

Well. Basti didn’t have to follow him, take those three long steps from the couch in the sitting room part of their open downstairs. So- maybe Lukas could blame it on the football, and the total annihilation being dished out on the TV, coinciding with Basti’s sudden lack of interest.

He could almost feel Basti slumping down at the kitchen table behind him. “Total shite,” he declared.

Lukas bit back his grin as he tipped the casserole dish in to the sink.

He’d just run the tap when Basti asked, “oh- what is _this_?”

Lukas turned his head over one shoulder. Basti had moved the fruit bowl over, already opened envelope discarded on the table, and he was waving the single sheet of trouble in the air.

“Is it a love letter?” Basti said, smile teasing, because he could look so princely and handsome and _devilish_ , and all at the same time.

Lukas’s blood ran cold. He had been counting too long on the fact that the fruit bowl functioned primarily as an ornament, and Basti wouldn’t have had case to touch it.

“Uh,” he said. He turned back to the casserole dish. Water flowed down and over his fingers, running on to steel and down the black holes of the drain.

_Fuck_ , he thought. _Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m not ready for this_.

“Dear Mister Podolski,” Basti started theatrically, and then he fell silent. In his mind’s eye, Lukas saw him settling down to read. Grin fading to frown. Eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Mechanically, his hand reached for the washing up liquid and he poured it liberally in to the sink.

“Shit,” Basti said after several seconds.

“Yeah,” Lukas agreed.

“Lukas. Shit,” Lukas heard the paper crinkling; he imagined Basti had flattened it down on the table. “This is _ideal_.” He paused. In his head, Basti scanned the page, scratched the side of his head. Looking for a closing date. “What did they say when you turned them down?”

Lukas let lukewarm fluid cocoon his hands for several seconds, not feeling it, before he turned the tap off and turned around.

“I didn’t,” he shrugged.

Basti didn’t look up as he traced the edge of the letter, lost in thought. He blinked and looked up. “Hmmm?”

“I didn’t,” Lukas’s had to pause to clear his throat. “I didn’t turn them down.” Reflexively, he crossed his arms across his chest. A barrier. Bracing himself.

Basti blinked. “But it says the start date for the position is January.”

Lukas let his eyes ran over the Basti’s gnarled hands, the purple-blue sinews at his wrist, along the sleeve of his dark shirt and the prominent edge of his collar bones. Basti, who his heart beat for.

“It _is_ starting in January.” He tried a smile. “I start in January.”

“You are starting in January. In London,” Basti said the words slowly, processing them, like they sounded wrong in his mouth.

Lukas had to admit that they did sound suddenly very wrong.

Basti cleared his throat. “Were you going to tell me?” he said, lightly. But it wasn’t _cheery_. Lukas knew it wasn’t. The acid in his faux-chipper words burned Lukas from halfway across the kitchen.

_Were you going to tell me? Me? Little old me, who lives and breathes and cares for you, because we’re so practically through sickness and in health, until death do us part, etcetera?_

“I didn’t know how to.” In order to stop this blowing up, he had to stay calm. If he in any way became desperate, that would be license for Basti to erupt.

“Since when?” Basti’s tone was still even. Lukas closed his eyes.

“A couple of weeks. I dunno.”

He heard Basti swallow. Behind his closed lids he saw him lean his elbows on the table, hide his face in his hands.

“What is this really about?” Basti asked weakly. “Are you leaving me?”

Lukas snapped his eyes open. He swallowed so hard that he started to cough. ”What?” he just about managed to choke out.

“Was I just going to come home some day and you’d be gone, then?” Basti demanded. “You don’t have to tell me why, you know. If it’s someone else. If you just don’t want to do this anymore. Would’ve been polite of you to say, though.”

“No,” Lukas fired back, before he remembered that he’d promised to be calm. He pulled out the chair and sat down at the other side of the table. He reached his hands across, but Basti ignored them in favour of that _bloody_ page, running his fingers over the sender’s address. “I just didn’t know how to tell you about the offer. But,” trying to keep things cheery, “now I’ve told you. And it wasn’t so bad.”

It was really bad. Basti looked like he’d been punched in the guts, betrayed on a stabbed-in-the-back level.

“You’re moving out,” Basti said. He rubbed the side of his jaw with the palm of his hand. “In a _month_. To _London_.”

“Yeah.” Lukas took a deep breath. He reached and caught one of Basti’s hands between his still damp ones, and pulled it down to the cool surface. “Pretty cool, huh? The institute said they’d pay for my flights and help me find a place.” His smile felt stiff. Come on, he told himself forcefully. Positive, Lukas.

Basti’s hand squeezed back, more involuntarily than anything else. With his other he was tracing the line of his eyebrows.

“It is cool,” he said, still like it wasn’t cool at all, “but maybe I might have liked to know. You know? Maybe I might have wanted to have a say.”

“Yeah,” Lukas said.

“I know what you’re going to tell me, though,” Basti was looking at him, eyes sea-green and boring in to Lukas like highway headlights. Lukas had had practise. He held his gaze.

“Well,” Lukas said carefully. “It isn’t, though. It isn’t about you.”

Basti blinked.

“Whether you move out or not isn’t just about me. Okay. Because… I dunno. This was your uncle’s place, and it’s in your name.  I own nothing.”

 Lukas squeezed, “he was practically your uncle as well. You know he meant to give it to you, too.”

“ _Your_ name is on the deed.”

Lukas shrugged. “You made me put it there.”

Basti paused, looking for another avenue.

“And I haven’t lived on my own in fifteen years.”

“They have direct flights to London,” Lukas said, smoothly. “Easyjet. Cheap. I can come back at weekends.”

“Maybe weekend booty calls aren’t enough for me,” Basti pulled his hand from Lukas’s. “Maybe I might just fucking miss you.”

Lukas didn’t mean to wince. It was the expletive in a sentence that was already hard to hear.

“Maybe,” Basti was saying, leaning back in his chair, “I don’t want you to come back here once every couple of months, to find that I don’t know who you are anymore. Maybe you’ll decide not to even come back.”

Lukas just about stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “Basti-“

“I don’t.” Basti stopped. “A lot can happen in two years.”

“We’ll figure it out. Lots of people do long distance. It’s not a big deal.”

Basti looked astonished. “It is a big deal, Lukas.” The volume of his voice was rising. “It’s a really. Big. Deal. I need,” he stood up, the chair squealing angrily against the tiles, “to think about this.”

“What are you doing?” Lukas could already hear his voice straining, because he knew exactly what Basti was doing. “Where are you going?” he yelled at Basti’s back, loping upstairs.

He tripped over his feet as he followed.

“This is stupid,” he called. The red mist was slowly creeping in despite his efforts to restrain it. “You are being really _stupid_.”

“Hmmm,” Basti had his back to him when he reached the bedroom, rummaging in the closet. “But it’s not a big deal. Remember.”

“ _Basti_.”

“You could do with getting some practise in,” Basti snarled, “living on your own.” He turned. Several pairs of shirts were draped over his arm, still tucked around their hangers. He dumped them on the bed.

“This isn’t you. You don’t run from problems, okay? Put the… Jesus, Basti- just put the _fucking_ shirts back.”

“But Lukas,” Basti’s tone was mocking, “it’s not a big deal.” He started rolling them in to his kit bag.

Lukas couldn’t move from the door. He felt helpless, watching this unfold in front of him. Basti reached under the bed and fished out a pair of Converse. “Are these yours or mine?” he asked. “Never mind,” he added after several seconds, because Lukas could only gape at him. He chucked them in after his jeans.

“You are,” Lukas hissed, “completely overreacting.”

“You made the biggest career decision of your life,” Bastian said coolly, “and you didn’t think I might’ve liked to know? That you could just waltz off to God knows where and I’d just play house until you came back? At _weekends_?” He tugged at the zipper on his bag.

“Be a _fucking_ adult,” Lukas was yelling now. “I’m not going off to party and have a great time without you. You’re not going to be _missing out_ on anything, _Christ_. _It’s not about you_. “

Basti’s eyes burned. This was the shouting match he’d clearly wanted to have all along.

“How can you think this wasn’t going to impact me just as much? The earth spins around the sun, not you.”

“There’s nothing for me here! They’ve been trying to squeeze me out of there for _months_!”

“ _Me_ ,” Basti kicked the leg of the bed. “I’m here!”

“You _know_ what it’s been like for me!”

“Yeah- and its shit, I fucking _know_ , but you don’t have to fucking _run_. Without _me_!”

“Don’t you get it?” Lukas shrieked. A small voice in his head told him to stop the hysterics, but he was already too far gone. “That’s why I had to make this decision on my own! It’s _my_ career, that I worked for, and maybe I wanted to make it _by myself_. Okay? Is that too much for you? For one time in my _life_ I wanted something to not be about _you_.”

“You’re such a fucking arsehole. Awh, was pwoor Lwuaks jwelwous? Because Basti got a rweal job?”

“Get _fucked_!” Lukas was screaming. The realisation made him deflate, suddenly. Basti tugged at his zipper again, the bag closed. He swung it over his shoulder.

“This isn’t going to help anything,” Lukas said, feebly. “You go, and it’s not going to help anything. We need to _talk_.” Basti was straightening the sleeves of his shirt, pulling them down over the watch Lukas had given him, several birthdays ago. Lukas tried again, “if I don’t have you, there won’t be anything to bring me back here.”

Basti crossed the room to stand in front of him. Lukas spread his shoulders, blocking the doorway.

“Move.”

Lukas shook his head.

Basti eased closer. Lukas wondered if he was being squared up to, and ignored every single neuron of muscle memory that screamed “ _kiss him_ ”.

“Basti,” he pleaded.

“This is your home,” Basti said simply. One hand reached out and twisted a piece of Lukas’s top between his fingers, just under his waist. “And _you’re_ just going to leave.”

“I’m still going. You’re not going to change my mind.” And yet, right now all he wanted to do was curl up in bed with him and never leave.

Maybe Basti thought so too, so when he kissed him, suddenly, it was like Basti just wanted something to tether himself too. Lukas was a little dazed when Basti suddenly dropped his shoulder and pushed past him. He barely felt the large bag half-hoisted on his back swing and knock the air from his chest.

The sound of the front door slamming echoed in his ears for days.

  


  


* * *

  


  


  


  


James was somewhere up in the clouds. Wrapped up in some dreamy, fluffy haze. A smile stretched his mouth so hard that his cheek muscles were sure to start twitching soon from the stress. Wrapped in against Toni, whose fingers were laced through his hair, whose arm circled James’s head, whose shoulder James rested against, whose lips rested pressed against James’s temple. _Toni_.

James’s let his hand spread and his fingers draw slow, lazy circles where they rested on Toni’s stomach. Skin like velvet rose to meet his hand. James still felt the flush in it, the strong pulse of his blood against the surface. James’s own blood still pounded against his ears.  

He couldn’t remember how long ago they’d stopped kissing. Not long enough to wrap his mind around the concept, anyway. He didn’t know if he’d ever been kissed like that. Fireworks, like in a terrible romance novel. Fireworks or shock? Because kissing Toni Kroos was not an eventuality he ever could have guessed.

His face buried in Toni’s neck was another, nor his hands on his hips. Or James ever being presented with the opportunity to rip open the buttons of Toni’s perfectly pressed shirt. Tonight dreams were coming true all over the shop.

Toni pulled away, slowly. He took James’ cheek in one large hand. James had the distinct impression he was being studied. It wasn’t hard to tell when Toni was thinking. His jaw would set, stiff. Now James could practically see the sharp sapphire cogs ticking around his pupils. Canny. Deliberating. But what he was thinking? James would have given anything to know. Mostly, he just wanted to be kissed like that again. Because whoa. _Whoa_.

 “Hey.” Toni’s voice was a soft hum.

“Hmmm,” James sighed. “Yeah?” He nosed at the jutting edge of Toni’s jaw. He smelled very clean- like hotel bar soap.

Toni’s throat purred. James lifted his head from where he’d tucked it against his neck to plant a kiss on his mouth, still completely incapable of killing his smile. There was a happy twist at the ends of Toni’s lips and it was _beautiful_.

“Alright, James?” he asked. When he said it, in that whisper, in the low growl- James couldn’t help himself. And neither, apparently, could Toni.

“I don’t know,” Toni mumbled, resurfacing, again, “what I expected when I asked you up here. If I’m honest.”

Toni was so warm. His eyes were so warm. Everything about just glowed with warm-ness.

“I thought you were mad at me,” James admitted. What a stupid thought now.

“I _know_ ,” Tony laughed and pressed their foreheads together. “I’m sorry,” he added, only a little softer, and- honestly- not like he was even all that sorry.

“Since when?” James sort of wanted to know.

“I dunno,” Toni mused, “that night at the burger place I guess. I didn’t know what to do about it, you know.” He nudged up against James some more, now it was his turn to bury in to the outside of James’s neck.

The press of the closed door behind James’ back was literally the only thing left reminding him that a material world existed. Everything else was just tingling and floating and blood rushing around his body.

“You know,” James said to the space over Toni’s shoulder. “I think I always fancied you a bit. From those grainy YouTube videos.”

“Really?” Toni said in a loud whisper. He sounded surprised. How are you surprised? James felt like asking. Just look at you.

“Well,” he began. “Yeah.” He nosed closer to Toni’s mouth. Then he gave up and just kissed him, winding his hand under Toni’s open shirt, around his bare waist. Toni’s phone ruined it- interrupting them with that pain-in-the-ass three tone iPhone message beep.

It was only when Toni moved away that James remembered that they were in a room. They were in a room in a different university. For Maidens. They’d won their round of Maidens.

For some reason the elation that he’d felt over that fact mere minutes ago had abated to a dull throb in some remote corner of his brain.

An office, James decided. There was a desk in it and a lot of paper. A _lot_ of paper. Toni had fished his phone from his pocket and was backing up towards the table, until he stopped against it. He pushed himself up to sit on it. James sort of quit breathing. The flapping of his open shirt was hypnotising. I did that, he thought gleefully. Even worse- the gentle line of his chest and the slight rolls of his stomach. Admittedly, Toni had always looked like a guy that had an exercise regime and stuck to it (James had enjoyed many daydreams involving Toni and a pull up bar) but the muscles of his abdomen, while definitely present, looked so soft and squishy.

Toni swiped open the message and studied it for several seconds, but not quite with the kindness which he had James.

James pushed himself from the door and walked- wobbled, his knees were still trembling- towards him. He stretched out his fingers.

He brushed at Toni’s knee. He wanted to move closer- his lips ached suddenly for the crush of Toni’s, something they already missed- but when Toni looked up at the touch he felt maybe it wasn’t the best idea.

“Alright?” he asked, lingering.

Toni considered him for a several seconds, his soft smile returning. He cupped James’s neck with one warm hand. Then he frowned back down at his phone.

“It’s Thomas. Muller,” he explained. “He wants to know how you guys did.”

“Thomas Muller,” James repeated, if possible more stunned than before. “Whoa.” The brilliant, enigmatic Thomas Muller. Holy shit. He was practically Chicha’s hero.

“Um,” Toni’s lips were pressed tight together. His fingers pushed up in to the hair at the base of James’ skull, James couldn’t help but lean more towards him.

“What,” he asked. He tried to make it gentle, but he couldn’t help feeling sudden unreasonable resentment in Muller’s direction.

Toni closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. James could practically hear the mental _fuck_ echoing around in his head.

“Um,” he began, again. He chewed on the inside of his lip. “Thomas.” He swallowed. “It had to be Thomas,” he muttered, James didn’t think it was for his benefit.

“Can I?” James interrupted. Toni blinked up at him. Bewildered crystal blue froze his lungs. “Uh.” If anything, it was encouraging.  He pressed one of his knees between Toni’s and moved closer, gently butting Toni’s cheek with his nose. And Toni let him, so he could hope.

“Sorry,” Toni whispered. “I still… can’t really believe that you like me.”

“Yeah,” James’s smile was still irrepressible, “I like you. But,” he looked down at the phone sitting limply in Toni’s other hand.

“Thomas,” Toni was saying. “Isn’t… didn’t you hear? Don’t you know? I mean. It was two years ago.”

James had a bad feeling. “No?”

“Um,” Toni breathed. Colour mottled his cheeks, his neck, the top of his chest. James wanted to kiss it. “Thomas. He’s… he knows what he wants. Normally he gets it, too- you don’t say no to Thomas. Two years ago it was our Financial Crime tutor.”

“Oh.”

Toni tugged at James’ hair. He was watching his mouth. “We all liked him. He was quiet, clever… uncontroversial.” Toni swallowed. “And he balanced out Thomas really well. And they were great together. But then, I dunno, someone on the staff must have seen them and… I guess Miro was older than us, and tutorial marks do count for half the grade; they probably thought he wouldn’t be impartial towards his boyfriend.” He paused. “Which I guess is fair enough. But… I mean… they didn’t have to fire him.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Toni was looking at him, like walking wounded. “To think I used to make fun of Thomas for not being able to hold out. But I didn’t think you could like me… I thought I’d just mention it and then I could start getting over it. Maybe you’d transfer class or…” He stopped. “It wasn’t my best idea, to be honest. I just had to do _something_.” He sighed. “I like you. I like my job, I like my studies here. I don’t want them to treat me like they did Miro. And it’s not… it’s not like you guys aren’t going to get pretty much top marks in for your tutorial anyway. You’re all so good, it hurts.” He said the last fondly and James embraced the warm tingle in his stomach. “I don’t want to lose any of it. I don’t,” the thought looked like it pained him, “ _know_.”

James was thinking. He let his hand rest against Toni’s chest, just under his shirt.

“So what do we do?” he asked.

  


  


* * *

  


  


  


  


“So tell me.”

Mario was crouched in front of the fridge, feeling cold in just his underwear. “Hmmm?”

“Marco,” André was saying. “What are the two of you going to do next month?”

Well, those mushrooms were out of date. Mario wrinkled his nose and pulled them from the shelf. “What do you mean?”

“Christmas,” André crunched from the direction of the table. “Is he going to yours, or something?”

Mario tugged at the pizza box again and, unimpeded by bad mushrooms, it slid out easily. “We’ve been going out for like, a month, André.” He tried to imagine Marco in his cramped kitchen at home, squished in at the dinner table between his brothers. He would be wearing a paper crown from a Christmas cracker and have that goofy smirk plastered across his face. The thought made Mario smile.

“Yah,” André waved his cereal spoon vaguely. “But it doesn’t feel like he hasn’t lived here forever.”

Mario shrugged, straightening the elastic waist of his boxers when he stood up. “He has a very strong emotional attachment to our dishwasher. I think you probably would if you spent all your time hand-washing your stuff. Like a peasant.”

André snorted. “Yeah. The _dishwasher_ is why he’s here all the time. Right. Mind if I take a shower? He’s not asleep or anything?”

“No more Sia.” Mario knew his warning would be ignored, even though André gave him a fairly attentive salute. “I mean it. And, uh,” he lifted the lid of the pizza box to avoid eye contact, “not really feeling class today after yesterday, yano? Would you give our excuses?”

“Hmmm,” André smirked. “Alright.”

“Mmph,” Mario peeled a slice off and shoved it in his mouth. Nothing was more perfect than cold pizza. 

Well. 

Marco was sprawled on his front over half of Mario’s bed when Mario wandered back in. Mario’s white bed sheet was tucked around his waist, making the relief of his back stand out and highlighting the curve of his shoulder blades.

_Also_ , Mario noted, pausing in the doorway and forgetting to chew, _compared to the sheet he doesn’t look half as pasty_. It contrasted with the elaborate dark swirls of his body art, stark and always, always beautiful.

He shook himself out of it and clambered awkwardly back up next to him. Marco moaned at the movement and buried his head further in to the pillow. In the distance, further down the hall, Mario heard the shower run.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty.” Mario balanced over him, one hand occupied with a pizza slice, and bent down to kiss behind his ear.

“Guurmpf.” Marco said.

Mario giggled and sat down properly beside him, crossing his legs. He leaned right over to the floor at the side of the bed and lifted his laptop beside him.

Marco’s hand patted along his thigh. “I like your briefs.” His fingers wound in behind the elastic at Mario’s hip.

“Well, André’s home.” Mario said, through his full mouth of crust, tomatoes and mozzarella, _mmmh_. “It was only polite.”

On cue, André’s voice warbled through the door.

“What’s the first line of that song again?” Marco asked. “We should know. _He_ should know.”

“I think it’s something like: _party girls don’t get hurt_. But André sings it: _party girls, blah, blah, blah_.”

Marco groaned. Mario saw the lines of his back tense in anticipation of the chorus. “I just wish he’d bring it down an octave or four.” He propped himself up on his elbows and squinted at Mario’s laptop screen, which had finally decided to respond.

“I’m not,” Mario started, just as Marco said “you _are_.”

“I just…” Mario reached with an outside arm and pushed Marco’s hair back from his forehead, where it had splayed in to a very unflattering centre parting. “It’s not college. Technically. It’s just the college email. So far all they’re telling us today is that,” he could probably stop smoothing back Marco’s hair now, but he really liked how Marco’s eyes were getting heavier the more he did: large, green and feline, “we should probably start considering our Masters applications.”

Marco flopped back on to the bed again with a groan. “Shhhhh! Ugh. Adulthood. A life after undergrad. I don’t want to hear it.”

With excellent timing, Andrés voice warbled down the hall. “ _Because eeeeyyyeeee… wanna swiiiiinnng… from the chandelieeeer. From the chandeli-EE-HEH._ ”

Marco visibly winced.

“You can’t get that note either,” Mario reminded him.

“ _Eyyeeee… wanna fl-eye… like A BLAH-LA-LA-LAA!”_ André’s assassination of the song was magnificent, but Mario considered printing out the lyrics and scattering copies around the apartment- like it would make a difference, or something.

“I don’t _try_ to get that note.”  Marco peeked up at him from under one long, thin arm, which he had thrown dramatically across his face.

Mario could have pointed out that actually, with the right amount of blood alcohol, he had tried to - but he leaned for more pizza instead. “The deadline for most of these,” he pointed at the screen, “is _March_. I don’t understand why they’re emailing us about it now?”

“It’ll take me at least three months to write a four-thousand word personal statement about myself.”

“No it wouldn’t,” Mario scoffed. It would take him ten minutes and the first four thousand would probably be about his hair.

“Hmmm,” Marco hummed, non-committal. “That’s the second time they’ve emailed us about that this week. Although,” he lifted his head from the screen and blinked up at Mario. “Can I?”

“Yeah.” Mario turned the computer towards him, watching Marco’s fingers skip lightly over the keyboard. “What are you looking for?”

“I saw something the other day,” Marco started. He sucked on his teeth, “I thought you might be interested.” He turned it back to Mario. Mario gave him a questioning look, but Marco looked sincere enough, and started to read.

“Munich?” he asked. “For a masters degree?”

“Yeah,” Marco pulled at Mario’s boxers waistband again. “It looks exactly like what you should do.”

Mario let his eyes skim over the course content, the criteria. “Whoa,” he said. Then, “I can’t afford this.”

What he thought was: _I can’t afford to leave you._

“That’s why,” Marco’s arm brushed Mario’s stomach, on his way to poke at the screen, “they have the Guardiola scholarship. Here.”

“The Guardiola scholarship,” Mario echoed.

Marco hesitated. “You… _don’t_ think it’s a good idea?”

“No.” Mario made sure to smile. “I just… the grade requirements for it are nuts,” he said lamely. March was so far away. And he had only been with Marco a month. But.

“And you have the best average in the year. You definitely have the work ethic.”

“You say this, but I’m sitting in bed in my underwear, skipping class and eating cold pizza. Your argument is apocryphal.”

Marco frowned. “Bless you?”

Mario laughed so hard he nearly choked. “It means ‘questionable’. I am getting you a thesaurus.” He nudged Marco with his hip.

“I’m not trying to get rid of you or anything, smarty-pants,” Marco said; the side of his mouth quirking up with fondness. His arm looped the whole way around Mario’s waist; he nuzzled more in to his side.

Mario slowly took more pizza in his mouth. “Hmmm,” he said, chomping. “I’ll think about it. What about you? You gonna apply for it too?”

Marco snorted. “My mom is too glad to have me near home. Unlike you, it makes a nice change being back.“

Mario _had_ said that he couldn’t wait to get out of this town. He’d grown up here and he’d attended high school here, and now he’d studied here and admittedly, he hadn’t been able to keep quiet about that particular itch. But these had been wicked September, pre-Marco declarations.

He closed out of the tab in his browser window.

“Right,” he planted a kiss on top of Marco’s forehead and slid in to a lying position, propped up on his pillow. Marco curled up against him, toasty and warm and soft. “Are we going to do this skipping class thing right or not?”

“I feel like such a terrible influence.” Marco took the edge of Mario’s ear between his teeth and tugged slightly. “Okay, so- how many episodes of _The Good Wife_ do you think we can watch today?”

  


  


* * *

  


  


  


  


“What are you making?” Marc hopped to sit on the counter beside the hob. “I hope some is for me?”

“Welcome back from the library, nerd.” Neymar looked up at him from stirring and returned the smile. “Burritos. And duh,” he waved the spatula behind him, “there’s some for him too. Whenever he wakes up.”

Marc squinted, in the darkness of the sitting room he could just see a figure on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket. Alexis.

“Habaneros?” he asked, drumming his heels off the cabinet as he swung his legs. He nodded at the simmering pan of meat.

“No,” Ney snorted, “I’m not _cruel_. Your head nearly blew off the last time. Oscar’s nose was still running a week later. Just jalapeno peppers for now.” He stopped stirring and narrowed his eyes at him. Marc’s grin widened in response. “You are evil, Bartra.”

“Yes, but-“he opened the food cupboard to his right, attached to the wall at his shoulder. “There is a case that Oscar just had the sniffles for a week.”

“I don’t doubt Eden would murder me in my sleep if any harm came to Oscar at my behest.” Neymar tapped the spatula off the pan and turned down the ring. “And it would be a horrible death, and possibly very creative. I can guarantee habanero chilli peppers would be involved.” He spooned a portion of the mince towards his mouth, sniffed it, and then tasted it. He nodded, satisfied, but when he turned to Marc again his glasses were all fogged up from the steam.

Marc laughed. He pulled a half empty packet of crisps from the cupboard- he was _starving_ \- and nosily unrolled it.

“Bespectacled problems,” Neymar said. “Be grateful for your twenty-twenty vision. No way was I going to be taking out my contact lenses tonight after I’d been chopping any kind of chillies.” He shivered. “Get me out the tortillas.”

Marc crunched loudly. “Nah. Say please.”

“Git.” Ney reached in to a bowl beside the chopping board at the other side of the hob and flicked a spoonful of it at him. Marc yelped and recoiled, raising his arms and the large crisp packet as a shield. “You got a little something on your face.”

Marc wiped the tomato sauce from his cheek and tentatively licked it off his hand with his tongue. “You’ve outdone yourself,” he said. He was surprised, but not all that surprised. “This is good salsa.”

“Duh.” Ney snorted. “I made it.”

Of course. Neymar had sublime cooking skills, and he chose to limit himself to burritos. Which Marc didn’t necessarily mind- he _loved_ burritos. “Where’s Oz?”

“His turn to walk Poker.”

“I’m pretty sure,” Marc slid back down from the counter, “it was _your_ turn to walk Poker.”

“Well,” Neymar countered, over his shoulder as Marc crossed over to the couch, “then it was his turn to make dinner.”

Alexis only had two facial expressions: there was Very Happy and there was Very Disappointed. Not sad, disappointed. So it was kind of nice that, when he was asleep, his face fell in to neutral. Marc regarded him for a long moment; emotion washing over him so strong and sudden that he flinched at the ache, then he pulled the blanket up over his shoulders. There was no more air in the room, and less air again when he bent near him. _I guess that’s why they call it a crush_ , he thought sadly, continuing on to his room.

As he fumbled beside the door frame for the light switch, a voice called out from beside his bed- a single syllable that came with a free injection of terror.

“Yo.”

Marc froze. He could make out a shape in the dull light of the street lamp, and with shaking fingers, grappled at the switch. He was only slightly less relieved when the butter yellow light filled the room.

Woj was sprawled over Marc’s too-small desk chair and was grinning at him craftily, obviously after some version of the Bond villain effect.

“You know,” he said, while Marc tried to swallow the fact that he was struggling to get his heart rate back to normal, frozen in the threshold. “You are probably the only one of them who wouldn’t completely freak out if someone was in your room.”

“What do _you_ want.”

Woj raised his eyebrows, offended. “Why,” he spread his arms, “can’t I just stop by and see my favourite housemate?”

Marc shook his head. “You don’t live here?” Then, “I’ll tell Lex you said that.”

“Hmmm, yes, well,” Woj motioned him closer, “do come in.”

Marc’s suspicion levels were rising. “It’s my room.”

“Close your door then.”

But so were his curiosity levels: Woj had sought him out, when Alexis was his soul brother. So this was about Alexis. On that thought, he stepped inside and pulled the door over after him. “Does Ney know you’re here?”

“I have a key?” Woj said, like that was an answer and not meant to provoke more questions.

Marc walked over and sat down on the bed. He glanced out the window where the street light was flickering. Crap, that was going to keep him up all night.

“Okay,” he started. “What?”

Woj examined his finger nails. “You. And Lex. You gonna do something about that?”

Marc kept his eyes trained on the light. “Maybe.”

“What about Neymar?” Woj sat up.

“Yo, cupid. Stop. Alright?” Marc whined. After what had happened with Oscar, Neymar could do without that. Marc loved him, he did, but _no_. Not like that.

“The speed of you the other day,” Woj hummed, “across that ice rink when he fell. _I_ couldn’t keep up.”

Mhhh. The image of Alexis tumbling to the ground with a look of horror on his face still left Marc feeling anxious.

“Well, he might have hurt himself. What’s the point of this, Woj?”

“To get the ball rolling,” and when Marc probably looked like he was about to object, “how about a bet?”

“A bet,” Marc said flatly.

“I want to help.”

Marc almost believed him. The flashing street lamp caught his eye again, and he turned back to it.

“Look. Do you like the guy,” Woj held up one hand, “or not?” He held up the other. In his peripheral vision, Marc saw him frown. “Is that tomato sauce in your hair?”

Marc grinned.  And to all questions, he said “maybe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I have a terrible relationship with my 's. Anything wrong here is the fault of Microsoft spell-check because I honestly have no idea.
> 
> 2\. I just needed Toni's shirt to be unbuttoned okay.
> 
> 3\. "Moot court" is a competition for law students where they argue made-up practice cases. I never did any but my friends did and they really seem this intense!
> 
> 4\. Stay tuned for more as I attempt to round these all up ^^ If you liked I would LOVE to know. (This is me begging for feedback)


	4. December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! This is the end!!  
> Phew! I only hope the length of this chapter makes up for the delay.

Manu found Basti outside on his back porch, with a bottle of wine, a cigarette and a low, slow melody humming from the stereo beside him. Not to mention that it wasn’t exactly summer time, in fact it was about four degrees below zero, so Basti was wrapped up in Manu’s ski jacket and several scarves.

“Simply Red?” Manu sat down on the steps beside him, nudging one of his empty plant pots to one side. “You’re showing your age.”

Basti grunted and took a long drag from the cigarette.

“Your dedication to nicotine is…” Manu trailed off. “I don’t want to say admirable? It’s new, if anything.”

“He didn’t like it.” Basti let the sentence hang in the cold air with his white misty breath. Then, “Mick Hucknall is a prophet.” Somehow it was evident that the two declarations were not connected.

“ _I’ve wasted all my tears_ ,” Mick warbled, a bit crackly, from the inside the speakers, “ _wasted all those years_ …”

“Hmmm,” Manu murmured, knowingly. “I see.”

Basti shook his head while he held in his breath. He wanted to prolong for as long as possible the warm cocoon the smoke forged around his lungs, and ignore the nausea and dizziness. He coughed slightly as he exhaled. “I’m showing my age? I got it from _your_ CD collection. CD, as in compact disk, as in that thing that everyone stopped using after the invention of the MP3 player.” He paused, calculating. “Actually last century.”

Manu breathed in to his gloves. “Dire Straits. Nick Cave. The Cure.” He rubbed his hands together. “There were so many other good albums out in eighty-five.”

Basti contemplated the nicotine stick in his hands. “In eighty-five,” he raised it to let it sit between his teeth. He breathed in to his mouth, and then down his throat, “you were six.” His voice was forced, struggling through the last of the vapour as it tickled his larynx. He coughed again. “I hate smoking.”

“I dunno,” the edge of Manu’s lips curved up in to the beginning of a grin. “I’m not the one holding the white death rod.”

They sat in silence. “I’ll keep holding on,” the radio chimed. “I’ll keep holding on.” Bastian continued to puff as the sounds of elevator saxophone filled the air, and then he stubbed the cigarette out in a nearby plant pot- whatever was in it was clearly dead already- and reached inside his pocket for another.

 He really did hate smoking. He hated knowing that he was effectively pouring all those bad cleaning chemicals from under the kitchen sink in to his lungs. But his headache- that migraine that had been hammering inside his skull all day- was gone.

“That’s called addiction,” Manu explained when Basti said it out loud.

“Shut up,” Basti snapped.

He had to stop being horrible to Manu. Manu had let him stay here, no questions asked, for way, way longer than he was welcome. Sure: Basti made him dinner sometimes, and he did have to sleep on the couch, but he knew even Manu could only put up with an uninvited grumpy puss for so long.

Manu reached for the wine bottle at his feet. He waved it in front of Basti’s face and Basti shrugged. Manu helped himself.  Once he’d licked the last from his lips he looked at Basti and Basti already knew what was coming out of his mouth before he said it.

“I had lunch with him today.” Manu had stopped gently offering words on this topic. He’d stopped weeks ago. Basti didn’t know what was worse: that it had been weeks ago, that Manu no longer said it with emotion, or that it wasn’t working.

No: the worst was that it still hurt. It still hurt, like an absaloute bitch, this dull ache just below his ribs that _refused_ to go away- like the recovery from an operation where a part of his inside had been carved out. Which he liked to think was near enough to what had happened. Was happening. Was definitely going to happen.

Basti drowned out Manu’s words as he angrily clicked his lighter to life.

“He wanted to know how you were. He was pretty happy to find out you’re still on my couch,” Manu added, as an afterthought.

Basti tried to keep his next, long exhale even despite his shaking hands. Lukas wasn’t meant to be happy. Lukas was meant to be miserable, and if possible, even more miserable than Basti was. Basti knew, and had continued to tell himself all along that this was all in Lukas’ best interest but he did still want him to suffer a little.

He had to choke down his need to press Manu for more. Manu was the only one of their friends that ever brought up Lukas now, and Basti was starving for information on someone that took up the majority of his thoughts. Would he ever stop taking up the majority of Basti’s thoughts. “And why do you think,” Manu continued, “that made him happy?”

Basti stared after the glowing ashes that he’d tapped from the end of his cigarette as they were whisked off in to the night, avoiding Manu’s gaze. He resented Lukas for knowing him better than anyone else, and then he resented Manu for coming not too far behind. He hadn’t left Manu’s, meaning that this split, this distance, wasn’t permanent. As long as he was at Manu’s, home was still the one they’d shared.

Like I wasn’t just bringing forward the inevitable, he thought. Like he isn’t just- the dull ache in his belly throbbed at the next word- leaving anyway. He couldn’t make Lukas chose between him and London. Lukas wasn’t a housewife. Lukas was miserable teaching. Lukas was too brilliant to be treated as anything else than the genius he was. It was the least he deserved from this life. All Basti had done was take himself out of the equation.

And then Lukas would have to- hmmm _ow_ \- go.

“You have to talk to him.”

Basti shook his head, flicking ash on to the grass at the bottom of the steps. “No, I don’t.”

“Why?”

As though they didn’t have this conversation every night, Manu looked disappointed when Basti shrugged, and said: “because”, like it was an actual answer.

Manu unfolded his legs-they were too long to be crouched on the step- straightened his back, stretched and went back inside. Basti felt relieved. That conversation never got less painful, and he could probably count the syllables of it on both of his hands.

 _Because_. Because, shit, he missed Lukas so much. He missed his dopey grin. He missed his ironing face. He missed being able to talk and having someone just _know_. Because he missed the feeling of Lukas’s skin under, against, beside his; that tremor in his thighs when Basti made his toes curl. He missed the best friend he was ever going to have. Because he hated the stupid couch that he had instead of their bed and that he still didn’t really know how to work Manu’s shower, and his coffee machine was pathetically below par.

Because a clean break was better.

He ground the cigarette angrily out. He took out the packet again, noting with a sinking heart how empty it seemed, when it was lifted from his hand.

“Give it back.”

“Nope,” Manu said, satisfied, sitting down again. He waved it in front of Basti’s face and pointed at the “Smoking Kills” warning on the packet. “Like I’m going to apologise for prolonging your life span.” He popped open the CD compartment on the stereo and set out changing the disc to one he’d just carried back out.

“Tomorrow,” he was saying, “you are going to go home. You two are going to sort this out. I swear, I am changing the locks so you do.”

“But he’s-“

“He hasn’t done _anything_ yet. He’s still here, Basti. You were an asshole when he kind of needed you not to be one, and yet, he still loves you. You need to stop being pathetic about this.”

Basti buried his head in his knees. Manu did have a point, but Basti needed him to understand that he _couldn’t_ just _go_ home.

“Xabi and Stevie,” he said. His voice was croaky and weak and pathetic. “Remember Xabi and Stevie? Remember how long that lasted? When Xabi left?”

“I remember.” Basti could hear him fiddling with the CD case. “But you two aren’t XabiandStevie. You are LukasandBasti. And also, having you around is getting depressing. If anything, at least break up properly so I have an excuse to break out the nutella, we can eat it until we’re sick and help you deal with it like mature, responsible adults.”

Basti couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so instead he just grunted.

Manu let the track play, and sat for a few more seconds in silence. He patted Basti twice on the shoulder to indicate that was the end of their motivational talk for this evening, you’re welcome.

“For inspiration,” he said, as the first chords filled the air. Nineties. This song was nineties. Basti recognised it- and felt stupid because it too was Simply Red, tragically poetic, but worse: one that Lukas had perfected at karaoke- and Lukas loved it, because it involved a large amount of exaggerated serenading. Which he had performed with sufficient extravagance at Manu’s birthday last year.

Normally it made Basti’s heart swell until fondness spilled over the side. Now his eyes started to leak instead.

This is what he got for hanging out with game theorists. Goddamn Manuel Neuer, actual Nobel laureate in knowing how to get a goddamn reaction out of people.

He waited until Manu had shut the porch door behind him before he lifted his head to wipe his face. His throat filled and suddenly he was sobbing it clear. Stupid Lukas. Stupid life, for revolving around Lukas.

“ _Stay_ -“ Mick Hucknall, traitor supreme- “ _can’t you see that I want to fall from the stars, straight in to your arms?_ ”

He leaned over and violently jerked the stereo plug from the socket.

 

 

 

* * *

__

 

 

 

 

 

“To the end of the line, I guess?” Mr Lahm raised the flimsy plastic cup in a toast, a gesture they didn’t hesitate to mimic- if only to be finally able to down alcohol after several action-packed exam sessions.

It was hard to believe, Marco realised fondly, that this was the same, harshly browed Mr Lahm they’d been terrified of months ago.

“Did we do this?” Mats whispered, clearly following the same line of thought. “Like; is this _our_ fault that he turned in to a total marshmallow over the space of ten weeks? Where did the dictator go?” Marco couldn’t discern whether he sounded terrified, awed or proud.

The turning point must have been whenever they realised that “marked on participation” meant “not actually having to do any proper written homework” and “asking as many pointless questions during class as possible”. This challenge was gladly accepted and then met head on.

They’d all agreed that even his eyebrows looked different. In the first week they’d been at a constant slant, but now they looked rounded and fluffier. So much so, that Rob had proposed that they nickname him after his childhood Jack Russell.

“But he’s adorable now,” he’d protested. “And so little. He even _looks_ like Fipsi. We should name him Fipsi.”

“It’s not the end of the line,” Kev was saying in the present. “We have an entire semester left!”

 Mr Lahm leaned forward from the edge of the table to snatch a handful of sweets from the arrays of packets in front of him. He arched back and shook his head. “And it’ll go _so_ fast,” he promised.

“I don’t want it to go fast,” Marco whined. “We’re going to have to do adult things, like think about the future. And taxes. And mortgages. And next thing, we’re eighty and dead.”

Lahm had just filled his mouth with jelly sweets and he choked on laughter when he shook his head.

On the last day of exams, as Lahm had promised, they’d all traipsed back to the now-familiar classroom laden with alcohol and goodies to celebrate their freedom. And discuss their Internal Market exam, which had been their last before Christmas. But most importantly, to celebrate their freedom.

All except for Mario, because he somehow hadn’t realised that them bringing the food had been an integral part of the food being there at all.

“Marco,” Mario’s hands coiled around the crook of his elbow. He felt the edge of his chin rest against his shoulder, his next words breathing in to Marco’s ear when he leaned all of his weight in to him, almost tipping Marco off the edge of his seat. “Can I have a slice of cake. _Please_?”

Marco had brought a discount value Victoria Sponge from a tiny corner store as he’d rushed in right before his exam, and Mario had been unable to quit drooling over it.

Marco pretended to ponder Mario’s request for a second. Then he turned and pressed a “nope” in to his temple.

Mario buried his head in to Marco’s collar. “I _hate_ you,” he said in a distressed whisper. “Just because when he said there’d be cake, I assumed there’d be cake; and not that we, ourselves, would have to provide the cake.”

Marco looped his arm around his back. “So? Are you asking _my_ permission to stuff your face?” He grinned. “Are you feeling okay? Are you sick? Feverish?”

 “My mother,” Mario declared sulkily, “did not raise me to stuff my face with food that isn’t mine, without permission.”

Marco snorted violently, accidently jerking Mario’s head from his shoulder. He started to cough on the violent convulsions of laughter getting trapped in his windpipe.

“You’d better hope she never meets you when you’re drunk,” he choked, a concerned Mats slapping him across the back to clear his airways. He wiped the tears from his eyes and grinned helplessly at Mario’s scowl, which was more endearing than terrifying. “No but,” he said, his voice rough, composure only half-regained, “there’s this level of drunk you reach and you just _hunt_ for carbohydrates. And devour them. Permission or no.”

Mario wrinkled his nose. “Do _not_.”

“Hey Mario,” Lahm interrupted, holding out the packet to Mario and grinning. “Would you like a Jelly Baby?”

Mario hesitated, clearly realising that this was the permission he had been seeking as much as he was having the piss taken out of him. Eventually his stomach must have conquered in this conundrum, as it seemingly did in every single one of Mario’s life problems, because he sniffed indignantly and reached for the plastic pouch.

Lahm caught Marco’s eye and winked. Marco was embarrassingly feeling the effect of Mats’s cheap cider already; he wrapped his arm around Mario’s neck and pulled his cheek to him to smack a kiss against it.

Mario was glowering at him. “I hate you,” he promised, chewing. Then he kissed Marco back, tasting of rainbows and E-numbers.

“ _Gross_ ,” someone said.

 “Seriously, though,” Lahm was saying, very far away; some universe that didn’t contain Mario’s cute, crinkling nose and honeyed eyes with Marco reflected in them. “Have you guys thought about next year at all?”

Mario returned to devouring his packet of pure fructose and Marco let his neck twist around to Mats, who was saying: “I was thinking of sticking around here actually.”

Lahm nodded, pouring them some more cider. “Which course?”

“The statistics post-grad looks pretty good.” Mats shrugged. “I think I’ll be alone though, I’m like the only one of these idiots who likes maths.”

“Ohhhh, aren’t you _special_ ,” Rob teased, and Mats rolled his eyes.

“Robert?” Lahm asked, aiming the question at him now.

Rob shrugged. “No idea.” He stabbed at his muffin with a plastic picnic fork. “I was thinking of maybe switching into law, though.”

“That’s very sensible of you,” Lahm acknowledged, his tone clearly leaving Rob wondering if he should be pleased or offended by this observation.  

“Yeah,” Kevin joked, leaning forward to look down the row of desks at Rob. He made a face, “I can see it now. Satan,” he mimed a banner unfolding with his hands, “Defender of the Destitute.” 

“Oh _please_ ,” Mats scoffed, “he’s going to work hiding corporate fat cat money to save them from paying taxes. Set himself up in a sunny tax haven. Send us four hundred Snapchats a day of the view of the sea from his pool.”

“Huh,” Rob said, the wry smile growing around the edges of his mouth. He pointed at Mats and looked emphatically at Kevin: “nope. He’s got it. That’s exactly it.”

“And you, sir?” Erik chirped at Lahm, just as Kevin took in breath to fire back a reply, “what did you do?”

Lahm seemed genuinely surprised by the question, legs swaying back and forth, suspended from the table he’d perched on like a toddler on a swing. Then he coloured a bit.

“I qualified in Munich, actually,” he admitted.

Marco could almost feel Mario’s ears sharpening.

“Awh,” Kevin whined, “and for a minute there I thought you were cool.”

“Hmmm,” Mats agreed soberly. “Pity.”

Lahm looked like he was used to it and shrugged. “Best years of my life. I wanted to work with Neuer, though, so I came here for my PhD.”

Marco realised belatedly that he was frowning, and everyone was looking at him. “Wait. We don’t like Munich? What am I missing? I am missing something right?”

“Awh,” Kevin grinned, “little Gladbach boy. That’s so _country_ of you.”

Lahm hummed his amusement, giving Marco an apologetic smile when Marco glared at him. The glint in his eyes said differently. Marco didn’t just wonder sometimes if half the reason Lahm’s defences had crumbled so fast wasn’t down to the fact he enjoyed watching them all swiping chunks from each other, in the true nature of friendship.

“Kev,” He pointed out. “You went to school with me in _Ahlen_.”

“Indeed, Farm Boy,” Mats sang, giving Kevin a consoling pat on the back.

“On the University league tables,” Erik, good old reliable, diplomatic Erik, “here and Munich are always switching places. They’re our direct competitors in Moot Court. And,” he mused, “Their football team always beats ours.”

“They. Are. Arseholes,” Rob let the words carry on a tune, which sounded suspiciously like it had been plagiarised from a football chant.

“Why?” Kevin gave Marco an icy stare, “Are you thinking of jumping ship again?”

“No,” Marco said, because it was the truth. Was this why Mario had been so apprehensive about Munich to start with? “But-”

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave him if he is,” Rob said, peering at Mario tucked under Marco’s arm. “I don’t want you being contaminated.”

“I’m with Rob,” Mats said loftily. “Sorry, Mario.”

Mario had been staring deep in to the sweet packet as he shook it and Marco couldn’t decide if his disgust was due to the fact it appeared to be empty or Mats’ proclamation.

“Guys,” Erik said nervously, “you can’t _say_ that.”

“Yeah. Mats, you’re the one who said he’d never bring himself to date a med student.”

“Benni studies radiography?”

“Oh, come on,” Kevin wrung his hands, “same difference.”

“What?” Mario asked dully, eyes darting around to rest on each of them. “I’m _completely_ lost.”

“Marco,” Mats explained, “running off to Munich for his Masters.”

“Because we couldn’t have that,” Lahm said, eyes on Mario. Marco had a feeling he was being sarcastic. _No_ , _wait_ , he thought with a sudden tidal wave of fondness, _facetious._

“Wait,” Mario nudged him with the rounded edge of his shoulder, breaking his reverie. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he added, teasing.

“They came to this conclusion themselves,” Marco said, “I swear, I didn’t say anything.” Mario cocked his head, the question evident. Marco could hear himself laughing at the irony of it all. “I swear!”

“Disgraceful. He didn’t even _tell_ you.” Kevin scoffed. “What do you have to say to that, Sunny?”

Marco swallowed back his knowing grin as he met Mario’s eyes and winked. When he turned back to the others he tried to not look too self satisfied.

To the surprise of everyone else in the room, Mario said: “It would be great, actually. I got a letter from Munich this morning. They want me for interview.”

Rob snorted. “Funny, Mario. You nearly had me there.”

“Wait,” Lahm said, crossing his arms and raising those spectacularly fluffy eyebrows in surprise. “Are you the one they asked me to do a reference for?”

Mario, whose eyebrows definitely ranked second in general definition and fluffiness, Marco decided; nodded. “That would be me.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Oi! _Kroos_!”

Toni decided very quickly that the Mesut skipping through the hoards of newly-freed students and in a deliberate path towards him was only going to put a dampener on this day. Which was going to be hard, because over the last few weeks Toni’s mood had been on a steady increase, and this obviously had nothing to do with whose tongue he was planning on letting in his mouth in the ever approaching future. Nothing at all.

But Mesut had that buttery smirk on his face that he only wore whenever he wanted something.

Toni  had already stopped, accepting his fate, accepting that he couldn’t just relish in the anticipation for the end of the day: today, most glorious of days, the final official day of the semester.

“Before you say anything-“ Mesut began.

“No,” Toni insisted, “before _you_ say anything, my answer is _no_.”

Mesut’s grin looked like he couldn’t care less, despite his eyes growing innocent and wide as saucers.

“Sami left me hanging,” he explained, shoving his hands in his suit trouser pockets as they fell in to step. “C’mon. It’s just an oral exam for one, teeny-tiny Fundamental Rights elective. There’ll only be about twenty students to examine. I’d get out much faster if there were two of us. Then beers on me.”

“I don’t teach Fundamental Rights.”

“You don’t _need_ to. It’s _Fundamental_ _Rights_. Like, as long as they look like they know what they’re talking about, kind of, and their reasoning follows something along the lines of “look just don’t be an asshole”, pass them. It’s that easy.”

Toni snorted. “And if I just don’t want to?”

“ _House of Cards_ can wait,” again with that irritating smile from Mesut. Toni had to remind himself that sometimes he was nearly fond of him. “Okay, how about lunch on me?”Mesut patted the matte leather of his satchel. “I even have a list of questions here. Easiest lunch you’re gonna earn yourself, I promise.”

Toni gave him a stern look. “Mez,” he started carefully. “What year are these students in?”

“Ah,” Mesut didn’t even have the manners to look ashamed of himself, but he knew a roadblock when he saw one. “Well, technically, they’re specialization.”

“Specialization,” Toni repeated slowly, as they reached the caf. He hadn’t even realized that Mesut was steering him towards the caf. “What do you mean by ‘technically’, they’re specialization? These are guys in their final year and their average is sort of _really_ important, and you just want me to throw whatever grade I feel like at them?”

Mesut examined the ceiling thoughtfully for a second. It was probably more a case of the ceiling being far easier to contemplate than the daggers Toni was throwing at him with his eyes.

“Well,” he said eventually, “see, they’re the _Enterprise_ specialization.” He scratched under his chin. “And so, they specialize in corporate law. By definition, they don’t give a shit about their human rights elective.”

The queue towards the counter inched away from them and they shuffled forward, the soles of Toni’s shoes scuffing against the rough linoleum. 

Toni glared at Mesut. Mesut glared right back.

“So: yes, then. You want me to throw grades at them.” Toni sighed. “You’re lucky that I’m hungry.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alexis was the last to arrive outside the third floor classroom, late, but apparently not as late as the examiners.

“Oh come on. It’s not _fair_ ,” he moaned, dropping his bag to the ground.

Marc, who had been sitting cross legged against the wall with his earphones in and his flashcards spread on his lap, winced and looked up at Alexis with the air of the disturbed.

“Sorry,” Alexis mouthed. Marc rolled his eyes and went back to his notes, chewing intently on one ivory earphone cord. Alexis could hear the dull _whump-whump_ of sound but couldn’t decide if it came from guitars or a synthesizer.

“What’s not fair?” Ney asked. Even he hadn’t forgone last-minute revision this time, if the rather rumpled sheet that he was fiddling with counted.

“You guys,” Alexis whined. “You guys look ready to walk a red carpet.” Neymar had tamed his hair to curl forward and flatten down over his forehead, spiking at the back. Marc had opted for a slick looking quiff, in the style of Elvis, or Stalin but mostly likely early Bruno Mars. It was important to dress smart for oral exams; and both Neymar and Marc had dark, well fitted suits, with white, stiff shirts and thin ties, and snug trousers.

Alexis, however, had inherited his suit from his uncle; it was a shade of sleazy grey and slightly too big- it fitted his shoulders fine, but was far too long for his waist. When he walked, the trousers flapped around his ankles. He had especial distaste for the ugly suit shoes; the only pair he owned that were half appropriate. “I look like I’m attending a funeral.”

Neymar laughed and ran two fingers around from the back of his neck, digging behind his collar and pulling it loose. Even the _tudo passa_ he had tattooed to his throat- embellished in swirly cursive and just peeking up from the fold of the fabric, somehow managed to only make him look more infuriatingly stylish. In a way that only Neymar could really pull off.

“Our funerals,” Oscar wailed, curled up against the side of one of the waiting chairs beside the wall. “Come on, they’re inside the classroom and they haven’t called anyone yet. I _hate_ this.”

“Calm it,” Marc said, a little too loudly.

“Yeah Oz,” Neymar drawled, fanning himself with his page, “we all know you’ll boss it. Its Fundamental Rights anyway, we shouldn’t be that worried. Everyone knows that Fundamental Rights is basically: ‘look, just don’t be an asshole’.”

“Why the hell did we even pick a human rights elective. Someone tell me.”

“That we can branch out in to other areas will look good on our transcripts,” Oscar chirped.

“Easy marks,” Neymar shrugged.  

“Oz, you going first?” Alexis asked. He quickly counted the others lingering around outside the classroom reserved for the exam, calculating that he had at least half an hour to find some dark corner to revise in solitude.

 Marc snorted before Oscar could answer. So, yes.

“We saw the guys arrive. So it’s Ozil and some friend of his, a stoic looking blond dude who seems to have a rod up his arse.” Neymar smoothed the front of his hair flat in the reflection of his phone.

“Unkind, Ney,” Oscar warned. “Behave.”

“Whatever, all I’m saying, is that if we’re the two going last, Lex, I want Ozil. At least he’s a laugh.”

“Oh, boo,” Marc fished one earbud from his ear and twirled it around his fingers. “Finally, the possibility of someone else who doesn’t think you’re hilarious. He should join our club.”

Neymar scowled and brandished his middle finger at Marc until he grinned. “ _Har di har_. It’s about the grade, here.”

“Can we rock-paper-scissors on it?” Alexis didn’t like the idea of a strict examiner any more than Neymar did.

Sadly, scissors beat paper.

“ _Fuck_. Best of three?”

Neymar just laughed, baring pointy, white teeth. “Do you want to take that chance, Sanchez? Look- I’ll come get you when he goes in,” he pointed at Marc.

Alexis cursed Neymar colourfully under his breath, and then he cursed the favour Neymar had curbed with whatever gods in order to forever win at everything. He sank to his knees beside his bag and unzipped it, hunting for his notes.

Marc, next to him, smiled behind his hand. How he’d heard Alexis over the tinny din pounding into his ears, Alexis didn’t have a clue. Long fingers curled around his cuff and tugged.

“Look,” Marc whispered, low enough for his voice not to carry, and Alexis glanced up. “You’ll be fine. You’re always fine.”

There was some truth but not a whole lot of truth to Marc’s words at the same time.

“Really,” Alexis breathed back, “it depends. I’m screwed if I get the strict examiner.”

Marc’s hand slid to his wrist and squeezed. “The Criminal Justice guys have him. His name is Kroos, he’s pretty sound. There are only fifteen of us in the class. Ozil wouldn’t screw us over like that.” When Alexis didn’t reply, digging around the bottom of his bag with one hand because admittedly Marc’s was comforting on his other, he added, “besides. Last one. Your mate still good for that party tonight?”

“Chicha?” Alexis touched at crumpled pages and tugged them free. “Yeah.”

Marc looked back down at his notes. “Cool. Remind me later that I’ve something to show you, alright?”

“What do you have to show me?” Alexis had his notes. He didn’t know why he was still kneeling. It wasn’t like he _needed_ Marc to keep holding his hand.

Marc sniffed; his eyes all pearly and mysterious. “A surprise,” he said. And he let go.

Alexis, with a long history of participation in and being on the receiving end of Marc’s “surprises”- among them Christmas wrapping all of the furniture in Woj’s flat and adding Mentos to coke bottles before shaking them- decided not to take this offering without caution.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

In hindsight, James really should have waited until Chicha had finished making his lunch before dropping that bombshell.

He must have known, since he hadn’t told him yet, that Chicha wouldn’t exactly take the news indifferently- but this was mostly out of fear that Chicha would berate him with guilt for not spilling. He told Chicha everything, or otherwise Chicha wormed it out of him somehow and it was nearly always painful when he did.

“You,” Chicha’s eyes widened. “ _What_?”

“Uh,” James’ eyes darted to the quivering knife and the forgotten balanced bell pepper and the possibility of Chicha accidentally chopping off all of his fingers on his other hand. “Knife down first.”

“You _what_.”

“ _Chicha._ ”

“ _You what_.”

“Oh _my God_ ,” James threw his hands up in to the air in frustration.

The knife clattered to the chopping board.

“Better.”

“You and _Kroos_?”

James folded his arms slowly. “You _started_ it.”

“I know I did,” one of Chicha’s hands flew to his forehead in disbelief. “That’s the whole thing. _I know I did_.” He was staring at some point in the middle distance between them, face rendered blank with astonishment.

One thing James did not expect to happen after revealing, in his own personal opinion, the single greatest piece of news that he’d had to share in his life to date, was to be hit with a sudden rush of doubt. Because he’d known Chicha his whole life and _never_ had he _ever_ seen him speechless.

“Chich’?” Chicha blinked like he hadn’t heard him. “Say something.”

“You see, I’m sort of struggling,” Chicha said in that over-enunciated, explanatory tone of his; used when belittling opponents or explaining the rules of Snakes and Ladders to a five-year old. “To reconcile my awe and,” he blinked, “disappointment.”

“Disappointment?”

“Disappointment,” Chicha agreed, with a sad sigh. “With myself.” He buried his face in his hands. “Because I didn’t _notice_ ,” he finished, muffled.

James let out a shaky laugh and lifted a glass from the draining board at the sink, grappling at the tap to let some cold water in to it. His hands were trembling a bit when he shut it off.

“ _How_ ,” Chicha was murmuring when he took the glass from James, “did I not _notice_?”

“Why don’t you sit down?” James couldn’t help feeling slightly self-satisfied when pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. _The first_ , he thought, pleased; _to silence Javier Hernandez_.

“Stop it.” Chicha slid in to his seat and let both of his hands slide around his tumbler. “Pompous Twat is really not a great look for you.”

“I like it,” James teased. “It feels _great_.”

Chicha dismissed him with a broad wave of his hand when he drank. It didn’t take much for James’s head to relay it as _Shut up_.

“Is this what it’s like being you all the time?”

“You are _unbelievable_.” Chicha finished the glass with a second long gulp.

“Thank you.” James couldn’t wait to tell Toni. Someone had managed to finally shut Chicha up, and it had been _them_.

“I’m not going to ask for the gory details,” Chicha spun the empty glass on the table, fast enough and loose enough for it to just-about-but-not-quite tip over on its side.

“I wasn’t going to give them to you,” James said, although he felt himself grow warm, thoughts of Toni’s tiny sunbeam of a smile and the slow movement of his eyelashes when he blinked suddenly coming to him vividly as though Toni was in the room. “I just… I mightn’t be here for some of tonight. That’s all.”

“You’re going to skip on your own end-of-term party for a lay?” Chicha’s objection was clear. “Your own party that _you’re_ throwing? Here?”

“It’s half your party.” James’ began to slow roast in his clothes, because, well. “And… it’s not… I dunno.” It would, obviously, be dishonestly at its height to pretend that he hadn’t spent the last few weeks coming up with five hundred scenarios for how tonight would go, and the vast majority were certainly above R-rated.

Chicha spun the cup again, eyes on James.

“We haven’t talked about it,” James admitted, and didn’t add _because if we had started kissing again nothing concrete would be discussed ever_ , “All grades are handed in today. We just… decided to wait until today, because he finishes up today, and then we can… give it a go. You know. Today.” James hadn’t slept last night.

Since his last exam yesterday his entire soul had been on fire, because, to be precise; Toni’s last words on the matter had been more along the lines of _and I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t get to at least try and be with you_ and James’ heart had promptly burst and he had kissed him until his jaw had cramped.

The whirring noise the glass made as it ground against the table top was competing with all of James’s thoughts about Toni now, and he was not okay with that. He leaned across the table and pressed it firmly still with his palm.

Chicha defiantly kept his hands around it. His face was drawn in to a scowl, cheeks peaked in sharp ridges and nose defiantly scrunched.

“Dammit, Chicha,” James said eventually, his arm cramping with the over extension. “I thought you’d be _happy_ about it.”

Chicha pursed his lips. He tried to ease the cup out from under James’ hand but James held firm.

“Don’t be a sulk about this. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, but I had to keep it on the down low. I _told_ you.”

The darker sleep-deprived skin under Chicha’s eyes tightened. The moment stretched on for a year.

James let go, sat back in his chair and began to worry. Chicha always saw the other side of the story, all the problems, all the holes in their opponent’s arguments.

James had decided that in a worst case scenario Chicha would break out the example of the movie version of _Notes on a Scandal;_ but he had prepared for that eventuality: because first, if Chicha was going to chide him for doing teaching staff even though he had been pitching it since October, James would be wholly endorsed to tattoo “hypocrite” across his forehead; second: James, technically, sadly, hadn’t been doing anybody; and thirdly… well, Chicha would then have to concede that Cate Blanchett could actually do any wrong.

“I can’t believe,” Chicha said eventually, “that I didn’t _notice_. Who even am I? My entire life has been a _lie._ ”

“That’s it? That’s… that’s your only issue with… the whole thing?” James inquired slowly. Just to be clear.

“What you mean that’s my _only_ issue?” Chicha cried. “What else was I supposed to have an issue with? Fine, whatever, you finally get to do our dorky debate coach, whoa, yeah- I’m like, so jealous,” he let out a sarcastic whining sound. “God forbid it.”

James breathed a long sigh of relief; there had been more air in his lungs that he’d thought possible.

“There was nothing to notice,” he promised. “Honestly.” It had actually hurt, having to avoid Toni. It caused him physical, searing pain; caused him to hesitate at the end of class more than once, to force himself not to meet Toni’s eyes across the room, to not conveniently be the last one out the door. He’d spent two weeks going steadily insane.

But not anymore. _Not after tonight_ , he thought, wriggling in his chair.

Chicha pitched forwards and slumped on to the table. “I’m a fraud,” he croaked to the plastic surface. “A _fraud_.”

James should have been concerned about his friend’s sudden loss of confidence, second round of Maidens being tonight and all; but mostly he was silently congratulating himself on a job well done.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Examining always turned out to be more of a power trip that Toni expected it to be. Mesut had a really well prepared list of subjects which seemed broad enough; so far there had been only relief when quaking students were given their main presentation subject. He’s spent all week sitting in oral exams- situations not to dissimilar to Mesut’s, when everyone had started smelling freedom and excusing themselves; and Toni had been called in because Toni always did as he was told. If only they knew about that little rebellious flame constantly licking at his insides; with an irrepressible smile and celestial brown eyes.

Toni saw the oral exam routine in his sleep now: doling out the subject, ten minutes of prep; five minutes of presentation, follow up question, _next-_ an endless line of psychoanalysis and judging ill-fitting formal wear.

But by his last, Toni was even starting to enjoy the attention a little bit.

“Name?” he enquired as he sat down, more out of habit than anything, because he was officially the last student to finish his prep in the room; and his query was met with a nod and a quip of “Alexis. Alexis Sanchez, sir”.

Being called “Sir” was never going to get old. Toni gave him a quick, judging once over- suited but wide eyed and nervy, his eyebrows all one, long knot.

“Okay,” Toni offered gently. “Go ahead.”

Sanchez took a deep breath and began his presentation, and when it became apparent that he knew more that he was letting on, Toni allowed himself several seconds to let his eyes wander: to the back of the room where Mesut was looking uncharacteristically serious and facing another student with questionable hair, and out the window over the courtyard. One half of the walls were bathed in tangerine light from the setting winter sun, patches of frost persisting in the corners where the shadows hadn’t lifted.

Toni thought about how James was out there, somewhere. They had their next moot tonight, in the convention hall. Thought of their progress warmed him, how much they’d improved since they’d arrived- if improvement was even possible. Chicha had learned to take it all less seriously- just about- and James had learned to slow down, not to trip over his words in an excited race to the finish line. If Toni was nervous for later, it wasn’t because of that.

Thomas’s text had brought things to a sober halt. Toni had remembered with a sudden, rational clarity how fast things had all gone downhill for him- how Miro had left, and Thomas had followed. Toni had been so angry with him- thinking with the contents of his pants and not with his head. But that was Thomas, he’d told himself ever since. Thomas thinks with everything but his head. Toni had always been the rational half of that friendship. Toni would never make Thomas’s mistake.

But now… if James looked at him one more time with cozy eyes Toni didn’t know if he’d be able to help himself. Toni wondered sometimes if he’d dreamt the whole thing. His head spun when he even considered that he could be lucky enough to catch the attention of someone like James. Someone that _good_ ; someone that devastatingly _beautiful_.

Alexis cleared his throat, breaking Toni free from his thoughts.

“Ugh,” he said, lips lengthening in to a nervous grin. He looked down at his rough notes- spidery panicked writing spread haphazardly over the page- and back up to Toni, who with a rush of something that felt weirdly like panic; realized that he hadn’t noted a single thing to mark him on.

He scanned Mesut’s cheat sheet again. _Just get this over with_.

“Article three of the Convention,” he said. “Go.”

“Um,” Alexis let down a prolonged, nervous gulp. “Article… three… is…”

Toni waited through the blank stare. _Come on_ , _buddy._

“It is… ugh… prohibitionofilltreatment,” Alexis gasped in surprise, the extent of this memory miracle exploding all over his face. “Um. Torture and punishment… and stuff.”

“So, after torture and punishment,” Toni lead, “is there a third branch of that article?” _Degrading treatment_ , Mesut had scribbled, _humiliation._

Alexis’s mouth went slack, stupefied. His throat made a vague, pathetic gurgling sound.

“Think about it,” Toni urged. He could probably pass him, he reasoned. He’d looked pretty pleased with himself after he’d presented his subject. He must have known what he was doing.

Several months ago Toni wouldn’t have let him away with it. But right now he didn’t care. Anything to bring him closer to tonight.

“Uh.”

“Think back. Less than torture. Less than punishment,” Toni urged. “Less...” He’d be spelling the word out for him next. _H-u-m-i-l-i-a…_

“Degrading treatment,” Alexis snapped his fingers, with barely contained delight. “Uh… it’s a… uh… general ban on mistreatment, yknow? Like… just don’t be an asshole.”

Toni hesitated, and watched as Alexis looked pleased with himself; and then, slowly- as the reality of his words dawned on him- completely horrified.

Toni had absolutely no idea what to do- he wanted so badly to laugh, though. Like- it wasn’t the _wrong_ answer. Technically.

Across the room, Mesut’s table fell silent- listening, because Alexis’ declaration of avoiding-arsehole-ness hadn’t exactly been silent. Mesut’s student turned around in his chair to look back at them- he had an impish glint in his eyes that said his tattoos and haircut fit in with his personality- looking reverently impressed.

“Shit,” Alexis whispered, the sound barely finding its way out of his mouth. His eyebrows now connected with his hair, and his eyes were all blue and no pupil. At the other table, Questionable Hair got up to leave.

Toni coughed to hide his smile and looked down at the- still empty- marking grid. “That’ll be all,” he said, rubbing at his jaw to hide the wobble that barely-contained laughter added to his voice. “Thanks.”

He couldn’t look up when Sanchez got up to leave- not until the door closed anyway, and he finally let himself raise his eyes to meet Mesut’s. Mesut had his palms splayed flat across the desk, his mouth open in an “o” and looking surprised and awed and _delighted_ like five Christmases had all come at once.

“He wasn’t wrong,” Toni tried.

“Toni,” Mesut started slowly, “Toni, Toni, _Toni._ If you don’t pass him, I’m sorry, but we can’t be friends.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Neymar was sitting on one of the waiting seats outside the classroom after Alexis had fled.

“I fucked up,” Alexis said, over slimy hot shame in his throat and stomach.

“I know,” Neymar offered, indicating the empty blue bucket chair beside him. “Sit.”

 _This is the whole thing with Neymar_ , Alexis thought. _You look at him, and think,_ _well_ , _I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him_. _But then_ , _he always knows when you need him_ , _and he’s always somehow there_.

No matter how late Neymar was, or how close the deadline approached for a group project that had yet to receive his input, or how much they were losing at five-a-side: Neymar always stepped up, and unapologetically saved their asses.  So as much as he lazed around, and moaned, and generally got on their nerves- he was always useful for that. And he made a pretty damn good paella too.

When he did eventually sit, Alexis let his head rest in his hands, pushing his palms in to his eye sockets until it hurt.

“I fucked up,” he said again. Neymar rubbed down his back. It shouldn’t have helped, and it shouldn’t have felt sincere; but it did, and it was.

“It’s over,” he said. “It’s over, and you’re free, and you don’t need to worry about it until January.”

“I fucked up the _piss_ easy subject,” Alexis moaned.

“And, you can make it up on your average next semester.”

“ _Neymar_.”

“No- I’m serious,” Neymar turned towards him and place a hand on Alexis’s arm, squeezing. “There is literally _nothing_ you can do about it. Okay? I am going to need you,” he gave Alexis a small shake; Alexis could feel his fingers curl in to the back of his jacket. “To snap out of this. You know how I feel about pity parties.”

Alexis had to acknowledge that he did know all of Neymar’s opinions on pity parties, at least ones that didn’t involve him; and they weren’t favorable.

But this was why he was glad it was Neymar, right now. Neymar would- literally- shake him out of it. Marc or Oscar- long departed in any direction that allowed them to change from their suits- would only indulge him. And Alexis needed to be shaken out of things.

“Yes, but,” he asked, “Have you ever had an actual problem, in your whole, entire life?”

Neymar beamed at him. “Sure,” he said, “’Cept then I started outsourcing all of my problems to you. Remember? You are far better at handing them than me.”

Like Alexis was about to forget. The issue was not that he handled Neymar’s problems, but that he acknowledged their existence- due phone bills, university registration, untied shoelaces... He stared moodily at his feet. His starchy blazer jacket itched against his neck.

Neymar gave him another small shake, and Alexis let his head go limp and move in sync with the motion, like a marionette. Neymar started to laugh- a snigger slowly evolving into a more familiar cackle- and Alexis couldn’t help but follow, even though he tried to hold out as long as possible; pressing his tongue to the back of his teeth to quell some very embarrassing high-pitched giggling.

He leaned in to shove Neymar back with his shoulder, but all that happened was Neymar’s arm stretched further around him. “Alright,” Alexis grinned to Neymar’s victorious delight. “Cut it out.”

“Good,” Neymar shook him once more, but it was more of a cuddle than anything else. “Now you’re happy again, let’s go celebrate shall we? Since you’re being all loyal to your place of employment tomorrow and can’t get drunk tonight, I say let’s go get some pizza, yes?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Marco hadn’t minded switching shifts with Neymar because of his exam. The after-lunch-to-seven shift was definitely the easiest one to manage. So even if it meant he’d do a double, Neymar would owe him (and this in itself was a pretty useful position to be in) but also at least when he wiped the bar down, it would stay shiny for longer than it took for some tipsy punter to slosh their sticky pint all over it.

It was empty, too. Marco could change the channel on the big screen on the back wall of the bar to whatever he wanted- he could lose himself in several hours of _Catfish_ and no one would be the wiser. And he could tandem the episode with Mario via Whatsapp, which made it better again.

If you didn’t count Nuri in the kitchen putting together tonight’s menu, there were only two others in the lounge. The alcohol prices and the slightly-too-old-for-you vibe the place gave off tended to keep away the uni crowd- so right now his company consisted of a guy at the bar frowning impossibly into his liquor that was really too strong for this time of the day, and another, more cheerful one who was enjoying _Catfish_ as much as Marco was. There was just something about the crushing reveal of the deceit in internet love that brought people together.

Honestly, Neymar had cut himself a sick deal with the afternoon shift. There was so little to do that Marco had taken to washing and re-washing every single pint glass they had by hand, it was _amazing_.

“Seriously,” the more cheerful guy was small and stocky, with stubby chunks of short dark hair spiked upwards like the lead singer of a punk-pop group straight from two thousand and four, and a lot of forehead. He swung around in his chair to take a long sip from his pint. “This is the third episode we’ve seen today- does no one own a webcam anymore?”

“I have, actually,” Marco leaned heavier on to the countertop, over his folded arms, “seen an episode where the Catfish was exactly who they said they were.”

“Hmmm,” honestly though, this guy was revelling in their misery and looked like he enjoyed nothing more. Like Marco could talk, “that defeats the whole purpose of the show.”

“It was beautiful,” Marco insisted, reaching for the glass and sullied cloth again. “Literally the first question Nev Schulman asked was; ‘and why the hell did no one ever think of a video camera’, actually.” He mimicked the throaty American accent, and his new friend threw back his head as he laughed. A little too hard, Marco decided.

 “You cried, didn’t you?” _Tiny but imposing_ , Marco thought, _like a pit-bull terrier._

“I definitely,” Marco remembered holding on tight to Mario as he wept, and André laughing, “did _not_ cry.”

The guy snorted. Marco’s phone buzzed and he swiped it unlocked.

 _Next year it’ll be us_ , Mario said. _We’ll be reverse Catfishing each other._

“What are you smiling at?”

Marco hadn’t even felt the grin plaster itself across his face. Apparently, this happened to him a lot these days.

“Next year,” he explained, “my boyfriend might be moving to Munich. So he said,” Marco locked his phone again, “we’ll be getting to know how to work our webcams pretty well.”

“Munich?” The surprised eyebrow-raise did nothing to diminish forehead size. Marco chided himself internally for being mean about this total stranger’s forehead. “Good for him. What-” A dull droning sound came from his suit jacket, and he frowned; patting himself down. “’Scuse me.” He pulled out a pristine, fiddly looking smart phone and scowled at it.

“This is Valbuena,” he barked in salutation, making Marco jump and nearly drop the glass he was drying. His face softened at Marco’s shocked reaction and he winked, holding one finger to his mouth in a universal plea of silence. “I’m _busy_ ; what have you done _now_ , Greizmann? Have you learned how to pull your fingers from your arse yet?” He got to his feet, indicated to his coat over the back of the chair, gave Marco a thumbs up and headed outside, all the while ripping in to Greizmann, whom Marco was increasingly glad he wasn’t.

Marco marvelled after him for several seconds, then decided; given he’d spent five whole minutes drying this glass, to call it a day and moved along the counter to slot it back in its place on the now sparkling row.

The other customer spoke.

“Munich, huh?” he said. There was a scathing, nasty edge to the words, which tempted Marco to give an equally salty reply- but he refrained, lest it cost him further opportunities at the afternoon shift.

Instead he offered him a smile. But fake smiling was definitely more in Mario’s repertoire. “Can I get you anything else?” He asked, coolly. _Whatever_ , _I’m not going to be insulted by a guy who looks like someone patted his hair with a chalky blackboard duster_.

The man shook his head and stared at the bottom of his empty glass. “No, thanks.” He had a sleek, black mobile on the counter beside him, and as he refused Marco’s offer, it lit up.

Marco just caught _Incoming Call_ and _Lukas Podolski_ illuminated on the screen before it was silenced with a swift flick of his wrist. Marco could have sworn that the line of his shoulders tightened, and the furrows on his face deepened.

Since Marco distinctly remembered him staring intently at the same phone for the last hour, he resolved not to take his attitude personally.

“So,” the guy started suddenly, again, “how long is your boy going to Munich for?”

“A year. Maybe more. Depends on if he likes it.”

“And,” his counterpart rubbed angrily down the back of his neck with the heel of his palm, the intensity of the motion causing silvery-blonde filaments of hair to fall over his eyes. “You’re okay with it. With more than… a year. With, I don’t know… two?”

Marco shrugged. “I’m not his keeper,” he said in his most adult-y voice. “It’s important to him.”

The guy scoffed. “You don’t know anything, kid,” he said, swirling the last of the powerful spirits at the bottom of his glass, regarding Marco through crow’s feet and marshy-green eyes.

The phone lit up again. They both stared at it now.

_Incoming Call_

_Lukas Podolski_

It was promptly silenced again. His gaze reached Marco’s with an _I dare you to comment_ glare and Marco met it with one of decided indifference. But he was curious.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, a penny dropped. A penny that told him someone else’s problems were being projected on to his. Which he should probably have picked up faster given how long he’d part-timed in the hospitality industry.

“I told him to go, actually,” he said lightly. “To Munich.”

“And you’re not worried?”

“Should I be?” Marco shot back. _Calm_ , he told himself. _Think future afternoon shifts. Afternoon shifts_ , _afternoon shifts_ , _afternoon shifts…_

“Well,” one large hand smoothed back a mousey strand of hair. Marco decided that this guy couldn’t be older than his mid thirties, but when he frowned he looked decades older, his scowl causing his heavy brow to shadow his eyes. The emerging patches of grey hair probably didn’t help. “Don’t you wonder… about him going and deciding that he prefers things… without you? Even,” he leaned forward, “with someone else?”

It wasn’t that the thought _hadn’t_ occurred to Marco. The thought had occurred to Marco. It just...

 _This isn’t about you_ , Marco told himself.

So he shrugged. “I trust him.”

It was greeted with callous laughter, somehow devoid of all humour. “Cute.”

“No,” Marco began slowly, bristling. “That’s how it works. That’s what you _do_. When…”

“… when you _love_ someone.” He tried his best to keep his voice steady, like the realization hadn’t hit him like a mallet to the chest. _I am in love with Mario._ He stopped. His heart was hammering very hard against his ribs, suddenly.

Not like the intended recipient of the advice seemed to have taken it in, or anything. He was drawing his hand down his face, looking defeated, but also looking like “looking defeated” was a style he seemed to be rocking a lot these days. His face was worn and hardened like this wasn’t even nearly the first war he’d been through.

“When you love someone,” Marco tried again, steadier now, “you _have_ to trust them. Because if you don’t trust them, or… or if they betray that trust, like- then maybe, being together isn’t what’s best for either of you. You know?”

God, Marco needed to work on his motivational speaking. He tightened his grip on the soiled cloth, wrapping it around the knuckles of one hand and pulling sharply.

“Distance,” he kept going, “distance should not be the issue. Because loving people over distance can be done. The issue should be whether or not,” he paused for effect, because he had a feeling he would lose what little credibility he had if it was found out that he was making this up on the spot, “… them fulfilling their potential is something that needs your support. You get me? I wouldn’t like him to think I was holding him back, or anything. For him to resent me for it.” _I am in love with_ Mario.

They stared at each other for a long time, and Marco told himself it was blink or die. He waited under the glare, the narrow-eyed scrutiny- but in the end, he wasn’t the even first to crack when the phone rang again.

“So,” Marco urged quietly, hoping his eyes weren’t watering, “shouldn’t you be getting that?”

He fully, completely and utterly expected a snide comment, or a command for a refill of the hard stuff, or at least for the phone to get silenced again. The guy considered Marco for a long second, before placing his glass carefully down on the counter and standing up, swinging a long, ritzy trench around to sit stylishly across his shoulders.

“Alright,” he said quietly, sighing, deflating, defeated; “alright.” He scooped his phone in to his pocket, and headed for the door.

Marco hadn’t even realized that he was running on a tiny adrenalin high, until his new friend-Valbuena, he remembered- sauntered back inside and sat himself back down, looking annoyed. “What did I miss?”

“Uh.” _I love Mario I love Mario I am_ in love with _Mario._ “Not much.”

 _I’m thinking of ditching Economics_ , Marco typed quickly, _and_ _maybe taking up life coaching._

His phone stirred almost immediately in his hands, echoing the tiny jolts up his spine. _Mario_.

 _You watch too much MTV_ ; was the reply.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Marc jostled him again, making him smack the back of his head against the cold mirror of the elevator. Alexis shoved back.

“Oh my God, cut it _out_!”

“It’s a small lift,” was the most shamelessly guilty protest Alexis had ever heard.

“ _No_ \- you’re being a _prick_.”

Marc smiled with all of his teeth, reminding Alexis a little too forcefully of a hungry shark. “Maybe that too.”

Now it was Neymar’s turn to ram his elbow in to Alexis’ ribs.

“Ow, _fuck”_. Neymar had elbows with such sharp edges they could probably have been classed as armoured weaponry _. “_ Seriously! You guys! I do you a massive favour and all you can think to do is _assault_ me.”

“No,” Neymar corrected, shuffling for space and getting Marc in the back this time. “We’re doing _you_ a _favour_. You need to get out more. And we’re getting you out more.”

“Excuse _you_. I get out plenty.”

Marc snorted. “But you _really_ don’t. Ow!” He rubbed his side. “It definitely says that this lift fits four people, right? I’m not,” he squinted at the plaque above the command panel, “going blind?”

“I will go blind if I have to stay in here a second longer with your aftershave,” Alexis said to Neymar. “What _is_ that? It’s strong enough to knock out a horse.”

“I can’t breathe,” Marc agreed, catching Alexis’s eye with a glint in his. He gave a rascally snigger, his cheeks squishing up in to round flushed circles. God, it was warm in this elevator.

Neymar stuck is chin out, insulted. “Whatever.” He flattened his hair in the mirror on the back wall, nearly taking out Alexis’s eye with one of those viciously pointy elbows- the perils of being the shortest. “Don’t even try and tell me I look desperate for some tonight, because that’s exactly the angle I’m going for.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Marc said, lips twitching; but looking kind of fond at the same time- like a parent sending off a prom date.

The doors slid open on the seventh floor and they tumbled out. The building was from an era where pebbledash and concrete were fashionable; and it smelled kind of moist and bleachy. Also, obviously- during the decade of construction it seemed that no more than three people got in to an elevator at a time.

“I am here to introduce you guys to Chicha and that is all after that I am _going_.” Alexis pulled the zip of his jacket up to straighten it.

“You are an exemplary party animal.” As Neymar was flattening his hair forward, Marc was rounding his back into a rather impressive floof on top of his head.

“You’re getting drunk; Sanchez- there is nothing you can do about it.”

“Nuh-uh:  it’s bad enough that you guys dragged me out here in the middle of a bus strike. I’m probably going to have to stay at Woj’s so I can actually get to work in the morning. You know I can’t turn up at his at two a.m. completely out of my tree.”

“Woj would be delighted.”

The door was sitting open for apartment 7B. The inside was just as dismally late 20th century as the rest of it; it was anything but minimalist with too much furniture; the style of which Alexis was willing to bet his grandparents would have been delighted with. A laptop was perched at the edge of the table in the corner; blasting bad-ass rap that made he didn’t even try to follow the lyrics of. Fleeting panic gathered in his stomach when he failed to recognize anyone at first- it wouldn’t be the first time they’d wandered in to the wrong party- until he saw Chicha spring to his feet from the couch.

“Alexis!” It had been a while since Alexis had seen Chicha; the cousin of some friend of his mother’s, who had both orchestrated that their boys meet up at least once this semester. Chicha was a bit of a shooting star, it seemed- on a bit of social status trajectory that Alexis had never felt like being a part of. The amount of people present that he didn’t know were probably testament to that, and he’d been here three whole years longer than Chicha had.

“Congrats,” Alexis lauded, slapping him on the back and not having to reach up for once to do so, “I heard you guys won this evening.”

Chicha’s face lit up in to a delighted grin- that was genuine, in an evil, world-domination kind of way. “Third round here we come. Man we sent that crowd _packing_. Oh and uh,” he smirked, “James probably won’t be here tonight, he’s,” he winked, “otherwise occupied.”

“Uh, well,” Alexis didn’t really know how to reply to that, because he’d met James Rodriquez one time and it made him uncomfortable to reconcile Chicha’s angel-faced roommate with that kind of corruption; so he turned- the entire reason he’d been brought along tonight, “these are two of my roommates- Marc, Neymar, this is Chicharito.”

Marc was giving Chicha his best polite face, Neymar however was looking at him like they were already life-long friends.

“Alright, Little Pea,” Neymar stuck out his hand, “out of interest,” his eyes slid over Chicha’s shoulder and to the TV, “how are your FIFA skills?”

Behind Neymar’s back, Marc gave Chicha a warning look and shook his head vigorously. Alexis sighed.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bastian definitely could not go around the block one more time- he was sure that if he passed the corner store again they would alert the police to a fidgety, scowling individual carrying a large bag and circling and circling the area looking like he was about to do something risky.

He kicked at the damp kerb, more for something to do than anything else; wincing at the recoil on his big toe.

 _I’m just finishing this one_ , he told himself, blowing smoke in to the air and tapping the base of his cigarette off his thumb, _Lukas isn’t going to let me smoke in the house. I’ll just have to finish it before I go in._

He’d told himself that three laps of the neighbourhood and several cigarettes ago, too.

He looked up, across the street- their terrace, their house, their red front door. Home. The curtains were already drawn and the downstairs was dark- it was late, but not late enough for Lukas to be in bed. _Maybe he’s not home_ , but he interrupted his own thought with, _but where else would he be_?

Manu had obviously told Lukas that he’d kicked Basti out. Basti’s phone hadn’t stopped ringing all afternoon.

 _He was right_ , Bastian thought of both Lukas as the belligerent bartender from earlier. _It’s not about me. It’s not about me at all._

 _I should let him go_ , _if I love him_.

And Basti loved Lukas so much. It was his primary function; it came to him like a reflex. At this point, he couldn’t remember a time where he didn’t ever love Lukas.

Maybe he wouldn’t tell Lukas about how he’d called London himself. How he’d heard Wenger detail the programme to him, why they’d chosen him; how his heart had quickened, because shit- it was just so perfect for Lukas. It would project him to the international stage- if only for the people he’d be working with- and, yes: it was a risk. But compared to that offer, Lukas had nothing else to give his career here.

He definitely wouldn’t be telling Lukas how long ago he’d made that call.

 _I don’t want him to leave_ , he thought dully. _That’s it. I don’t want to admit to myself how much I need him. I need him like breathing._

Every morning when he woke up, knowing he was on the couch, knowing that the first thing he would breathe in was the old-Chinese-takeout smell of Manu’s place, his hand still stretched for Lukas; and it would fill him with some sort of strange, detached emptiness to find him not there. He’d stopped turning on the radio in the car, because all the songs that played were either sad and soppy and about loving someone, or happy and soppy and about loving someone. He’d unconsciously compare his reaction to things with possible reactions from Lukas: everything from politics to rating Manu’s seventh effort at pancakes (Basti: no, Lukas: yes- his culinary motto was after all that _crispy_ is not necessarily _bad_ ).  

He ran his thumb over the sharp edge of the now empty packet in thought, breathing mechanically through the cigarette.

No more excuses.

He crossed the road, up the steps to their door, rummaged in his pocket for the key. It slid in to the lock, Basti tugged the door towards him, twisted it to the right, then shoved against it with his foot and jerked stiffly to the left, and the heavy door creaked open. It was a process Basti must have gone through several hundred times, and the sudden weight of its absence in his routine of late struck him quite painfully on the left side of his chest; making him pause.

What if Lukas didn’t want him to come crawling back?

What if Lukas had been calling him all afternoon to say, _nah_ , _don’t bother_?

_Only one way to find out._

However, that thought only got him as far as inside the door.

 He hadn’t been here for long enough that the smell in the hall was strange in his nose. It was strange because he’d stopped noticing it so long ago. He’d stopped noticing it right back when he was still at school and Lukas’ parent’s house was still a place he frequented occasionally and didn’t just arrive and stay for days.

So in the hallway, his feet grew roots, and he closed his eyes and breathed.

It was about time he took stock of why he was here. Apart from Manu telling him he wasn’t welcome- and let’s face it, he had other friends with upholstered furniture on which he could sleep- Basti wasn’t really sure what he had to say to Lukas.

Bastian didn’t even know if he was really apologizing. He was willing to recognise that he’d overreacted-a bit- but he didn’t want to take back what he’d said. Lukas _should_ have told him. They were together, they were the same; and if Lukas had wanted out that badly Basti should have been the first to know.

And he was allowed to not want Lukas to go too, right?

 _You are an idiot_ , he told himself. _God. You are just so stupid._

 After what could have been a year he let himself shuffle in to the kitchen. There was only one plate in the sink. Basti’s books were still scattered in random places across the room- where’d he’d picked them up, sworn to read more, got through ten pages and put them straight back down again. The guitar that they’d never played in one corner.

This was his home. This was _their_ home. No matter where they went, it would always be their home.

He ran his hand over the familiar surface of the counter, the movement sending more warmth through him than any cigarette he’d smoked since he’d walked out the door. He knew the length of it to the inch, not least because he’d been there when they’d put it in, but from the time he’d spent manoeuvring around it.

He felt Lukas’ presence before he saw him: at the top of the stairs, all holey t-shirt and cheap acrylic pyjama pants and rubbing his eyes in disbelief. He was only taking up the tiniest part of the room, but as far as Basti was concerned he might as well have been the only thing in it.

Disbelief. _He knew I was coming though_.

“Basti?” He was so far away Basti only saw the question move his lips, saw his face slack in relief- or maybe it was desperation. He looked drained, like he’d aged since Basti’d last seen him- his cheeks were hollow, the rings under his eyes darker, and he almost looked smaller in his clothes.

“I’m sorry,” Basti whispered. He’d said it before he thought it. “I missed you.”

Lukas gave a tiny shake, his arms falling to his sides. He shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” Basti said again, louder. “I am so, so sorry.” The struggle to keep his voice level was real. He hadn’t even realised how broken his heart had been in all the time they were apart.

Lukas’ eyes fixed on him. One hand wound tight around the banister.

“I really didn’t think you’d come back,” he said, his voice barely making the distance.

Basti took the stairs three at a time.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Toni called James’ name, James nearly jumped from his skin.

He’d been standing at the edge of the boardwalk, looking over the edge of the river. It was freezing cold, and he’d been attempting to distract himself from the numbness his fingers still felt through his gloves by following the different reflections of the metropolis on the other side of the water.

But when Toni called him- and Toni didn’t call him like had in class, or when he was prepping them before the debate this evening; Toni had called him like he had all those weeks ago when James’ hand had been against his bare skin, when Toni had sighed his name against his throat like it was the only word he knew.

“Hi,” James turned. “You took your time,” he added, airily; trying to be cool and tease. It didn’t work, because he tripped over his words in the middle; and it ended up being so severely uncool that James winced internally but Toni smiled anyway. His expression faded from apprehensive- the skin tight under his eyes- to relaxed, something about the area of his collar going slack.

“Sorry,” he said, looking like his tardiness genuinely pained him.

“It’s alright,” James promised.

Of course it was alright. It would only stop being alright whenever Toni stopped looking so good in the half-darkness, shadows enunciating his cheekbones and the dim light only catching just enough of the blue in his eyes.

There was a long second of silence, where James hesitated, and Toni hesitated. James had been waiting this exact moment for so long that he was suddenly unsure of what he was even meant to do. James felt heat creep across his chest, his neck, up in to his cheeks; cheeks that hurt now because happiness was bursting like fireworks in his lungs and stretching his lips past their limit felt like the only way he could portray it.

“Yeah,” Toni agreed. He took several confident steps forward, to stand beside him and look out over the water. “I, uh,” he grinned sheepishly, his teeth barely visible between his lips, his cheeks ripening- James could feel his pull, his ankles were straining as he leaned towards him against his will.

“Yeah,” James said softly. His eyes traced the curve of Toni’s lips- the top one thin, the bottom one rounded and flushed. _I get to kiss him again_. _After the two longest weeks of my life_ , _I_ finally _get to kiss him again._

Toni paused, swallowed. James’ heart fluttered at the tightness in his neck.

“So, erm,” there was no part of Toni’s face now that wasn’t blushing; “does this mean I get to do this now?”

James almost breathed the question- his throat felt rather swollen- when one of Toni’s arms reached out and touched at the elbow of his coat, ran gently down the length of his arm, and slid their gloved hands together.

James was quite sure that he was going to burst. Toni must have seen, because his smile widened, and his hand shifted so their fingers tangled impossibly and James wouldn’t have even been able to free his even if he’d wanted to- which he didn’t want to; and may never again want to.

This felt complete. Suddenly, this felt perfect.

“Yeah,” James said, “yeah- you do get to do that, now.” He squeezed back softly. He could get used to the weight of Toni’s hand in his.

“I was thinking,” James added after a moment, because he was just about able to think. “We could go by the Christmas market. Because it’s open. And I can actually drink now, after exams.” Mostly he just wanted to be cuddled in a festive setting. But he hoped Toni would get the hint.

Anyway if Toni didn’t get the hint, James was now free to test all of his powers of persuasion.

Blue-y, silvery tendrils of irises twisted and pulled in Toni’s eyes again. He blinked in slow motion. James’ face hurt from this smile, he couldn’t remember ever needing to do so like this; needing it to stretch past what he was physically capable of. And Toni just seemed to get redder; it was wonderful.

Toni’s other hand lifted, and James knew what he was going to do probably before Toni even did himself.

He moved closer, letting his own arm stretch and reach Toni’s forehead before Toni’s own. Grinning, he let his eyes be drawn upwards to their two hands clasped against Toni’s temple. Toni looked bewildered; and James laughed, moving his palm Toni’s and slowly, carefully, smoothing the strand of hair across his forehead, over towards his ear.

Toni was already kissing him before he’d finished the movement.

It was as sweet as it was desperate- closed mouthed and with surprisingly warm lips and impossibly soft. Toni’s arm reached around his back, clasping James tight to him; and James found himself gripping the back of Toni’s head.

They broke apart- only barely, only by an inch; and Toni nosed gently at his cheek.

James wasn’t really sure that he remembered how to breathe. Toni still smelled all soapy. He kissed him again; held his face in his hands when he put his lips to his cheek.

Toni gave a silly, giddy laugh; and James had to take a second while his brain rebooted.

“Let’s get going,” he whispered to the soft skin just in front of Toni’s ear, into the tiny golden strands of hair that peeked out from where Toni’s mop of dirty blonde thinned.

“Yeah,” Toni buried his face in to James’ neck; or rather his scarf. “Let’s.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Hey, you seen Marc?”

Neymar turned around from the conversation he was having with maybe seven other people, scratching his nose in thought. In what was very much a Neymar thing to do; he was now friends with everyone at Chicha’s party and was delighting them all with over-exaggerated stories of his daring and chivalry. Alexis knew better than to burst his bubble.

“I think,” Neymar hummed in thought, “he said he was going up to the roof for a smoke? Why?”

Alexis couldn’t tell him that he was already leaving. But he was beat and he had to work tomorrow and plus- nothing good _ever_ happened after two in the morning. He had a feeling that a pack of cards was about to come out; and he figured once that happened Neymar wouldn’t notice anyway.

“I was, eh, just wondering,” he said, the lie pathetic. He patted him on the shoulder and ducked out of the room.

Chicha had directed all smokers to the open roof, and Alexis had been up there already and nearly lost his nose to frostbite; so wondered if it was to test their addiction. He trudged up the two flights of stairs.

He was already cold by the time he’d reached the top. Cold and out of breath. Man, he liked to consider himself fit, so why was he leaning against the concrete wall completely winded?

“Yo,” he wheezed at Marc’s solitary figure over at the balcony’s edge. “I got your text. I’m going in a minute, so what…?” Odd. As far as Alexis could tell, smoking was a group activity- and yet here Marc was contemplating the skyline on his own.

Marc breathed out calmly, smoke billowing in front of his face, and jerked his head; beckoning Alexis over. “I thought you’d forget.”

“Uh.” Alexis managed to push himself from the doorway and cross the short distance to the balcony’s edge. The wind was icy cold and whipped harshly against his ears. He buried his neck in to the folds of his jacket.

“That I have something to show you.”

“I totally didn’t forget.” Alexis had completely forgotten.

Marc gave a tiny smile. “Lucky I remembered. You leaving?”

“Yeah.” Alexis leaned back against the side, because heights gave him the creeps. “Don’t tell Ney.”

“Right,” Marc took a long drag and turned his head the other way when he expelled it. “Let me finish up.”

“Is,” Alexis reached one hand to the wall to trace the frost off it. His gloves were still in his bag downstairs, and his fingers went red and numb within seconds. “Is what you’re going to show me, gonna want to make me throw you over the edge?” He indicated over the side of the roof, attempting to smirk à la Neymar. He knew already that he wasn’t very good at it, but Marc normally found it funny when he tried; and the air up here was oddly tense.

Marc’s smile grew. “Maybe.” Alexis wondered why he looked so sad.

“Can you give me a hint, then?”

Marc lifted the cigarette to his lips, inhaled. The angles of his face sharpened. _Damn_ , Alexis thought, _how can he look so effortlessly good? Ney better watch his game._

_Unless Marc is his game._

“Look,” Marc said, his voice going serious. He looked out, out over the city and definitely not at Alexis. “I don’t… I’m not really sure how to do this. I’ve never done it before.”

“Never done what?” In terms of Marc’s surprises this probably wasn’t a great sign.

Marc paused. “Your hand looks cold,” he offered. He reached in to the space between them and laid his on top of Alexis’, to stop it tracing the ice.

“It is.” It had barely registered Marc’s touch.

Marc breathed in and out again. Although the wind blew the smoke in to Alexis’ face now, making his eyes water. He knew better than to try and chide his friends from their smoking habits- that would be a rookie mistake; but they did keep it to social occasions. At least that way they just smelled a bit ashy the morning after a night out, instead of the smell taking over their apartment.

Marc’s teeth sank in to his lip. His hand curled around Alexis’; pressing it to the concrete, curving his fingers around to press in to Alexis’ palm. The line of his mouth was oddly puckered, like he was pressing it forcefully closed.

Then: “That thing. That face you make, you know the one where you try to look all pleased with yourself, but like Neymar?”

Until Alexis was sure of where this was going, it was probably better to assume these questions were rhetorical.

“You don’t have to do that. You don’t have to try and be like him all the time, you know. It’s funny, it is… but you… I… you’re fine, _better_ the way you- no. Actually.” He looked irritated, shifting from foot to foot and very definitely not looking at Alexis. “No,” he murmured, seemingly to himself, “not like that.”

“Marc,” Alexis began slowly, “what? Is… are you okay?” He hadn’t had that much to drink, as far as Alexis was aware.

“You know,” Marc admitted gravely, “I don’t think I am.”

“Are you…” Alexis wasn’t sure what to ask. He felt suddenly uneasy. What Marc had to tell him was obviously important; and Alexis worried now that something was very wrong.

Marc’s fingers pushed deeper in to his hand. “You worry about me,” he said to the sky. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah,” Alexis admitted. _Definitely when you go all weird and serious on me._

“You worry about all of us.” He said it sourly, spitting smoke out in to the wind.

“I…” Alexis’ ears may have frozen and cracked off by now, he wouldn’t know. “Obviously.” _Constantly._

Marc snorted, bitter.

“Marc,” Alexis urged, wrapping his other arm around himself to try and contain some sort of body heat. “What’s wrong?”

Marc paused. Alexis let his hand in turn close around Marc’s fingers. They were as frozen as Alexis’s. He squeezed.

“’Lex ,” Marc said, barely on a breath. “I like you.”

“Okay,” Alexis said, “I like you too.”

“No,” Marc stubbed his cigarette out angrily on the cold stab of stone in front of him. “I _like_ you. I mean,” he stiffly lifted his hand from Alexis’, “I have liked you, like this. I don’t, I just-,” he reached for Alexis’s jacket, curled his hand around his waist.

Alexis froze, and not from the cold. Far from the cold. In fact, he wasn’t even cold.Warm blood roared in his ears.

“Tell me to stop,” Marc said. He moved in closer, his body sliding up right to Alexis’. His breath was red hot against Alexis’ face.

Marc’s eyes were shimmering with something he couldn’t name. It was intense but not angry, anxious and charged but something tender was present in the slivers of gold in the green of his irises as they watched Alexis- sharpening and softening like a cat’s. His hands were too hot where they pressed to his body, Alexis was sweating in his coat.

“I,” Alexis spluttered, and Marc paused. Suddenly, very little would connect in Alexis’ head.

_Marc likes me._

Then:

_I think Marc is going to kiss me._

But Marc was… Alexis didn’t even have to be subjective to know that Marc was definitely at the high end of what was considered gorgeous. Alexis and Oscar had breakfasted with many, many fashionably scruffy Abercrombie models over the years to know what Marc was capable of pulling.

It didn’t… in his head, this didn’t work.

“Is this,” the thought eventually wandered into his brain as the only rational explanation, “a joke?”

It was only when Marc’s cold hand touched at his cheek that Alexis realised how much blood was pounding against the surface of his skin.

“No,” Marc said, before he leaned in carefully.

Alexis, who had only ever lived messy, drunk club hook ups and tended to regret his one night stands; for the first few stuttering heartbeats, did not know what this was. Kissing was about the far-off taste of beer and that smell of overpowering aftershave. Hesitation, care, such tenderness- these were not elements that he knew. Hands normally pulled at his hips and did not hold his face like it might break.

So, for longest second of Alexis’s life, in the midst of a kiss that surely only ever played out in fairy tales, Alexis did not know what to do. His head felt strangely light and empty, and Marc’s smell filled his nose, vague, cozy and of burning; and of Marc. But then he felt the lips on his part, and his body reacted for him: moving in to the last of the space between them, kissing back in to that uncertain mouth. He heard the reactionary moan and his lips felt the needle of teeth and his mouth was full of someone else’s tongue. Marc made a desperate noise against his lips; of intense longing that Alexis couldn’t help but want to hear more of. Their hips ground together.

The effect was immediate. Something razor-sharp and with the horse power of several Ferraris gathered in his brain and charged down his spine and struck him in the crotch with force.

He recoiled with a yelp, flinching like he’d been kicked.

“Neymar,” Alexis stammered. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, far too aware of the scratch of wool against uber-sensitive skin. Breath rattled through his lungs. “This isn’t fair on Neymar,” he added in a rush.

Marc. He’d kissed Marc. He’d kissed Marc, his housemate, his best friend, and he had a boner to prove it.

If Alexis’s body burned, real fire blazed from Marc’s eyes.

“What,” Marc croaked, “about it.”

Alexis hadn’t even noticed that his chest was heaving. He wiped his mouth again, his brain frantically processing what had just happened.

“You know,” he said dumbly. “You know that Neymar wants you.”

“Of course I _know_ ,” Marc said. Alexis sensed a flare in his temper, and it almost scared him.

“This,” but his mouth was on fire, his body aching and alight for more of that kiss; “is not fair on him.”

Marc’s jaw dropped. “Lex,” he said desperately, “don’t do this.”

“It’s _not_ though,” Alexis insisted. “He can’t go through that again.”

Marc ran his hand back through his hair, tugging so sharply that Alexis wondered why some of it didn’t rip out. He swallowed, hard. “Don’t do this. Please. Don’t choose _now_ to do this.”

“What am I doing?” Alexis protested angrily, “It _isn’t_ fair on him.”

Marc took a deep breath. “Stop,” he said slowly, “being _honourable_. What do _you_ want?”

“I don’t want miserable housemates.” It came out as stupid as it sounded. Mostly because Alexis was somewhere between floating and falling- every time _Marc kissed me_ entered his head it was met with a very decisive _I kissed him back._

“No; _fuck_ \- for once in your life, make a goddamn decision based on what _you_ want, okay?” Marc snapped. “Neymar? Right. Fine. Okay. What about _you_? What do _you want_ , Alexis? Because I will,” his voice cut off, ”do whatever you want.”

Alexis blinked. “Me?” This didn’t feel like it was about him. All he was here was another cog to complicate things between his two best friends; and he didn’t want to be that.

“If it’s that,” Marc said, pacing, “if it’s that you just don’t… If you don’t… want this. Okay. Okay, just say it. But please,” he ran both his hands through his hair now. Twitchy, nervous Marc was fascinating and something Alexis had never, ever witnessed. “Don’t make this about _Neymar_.” He turned sharply to come to a stop in front of Alexis. “Do _you_ ,” he whispered, his eyes flickering the length of Alexis’ face, “want _me_?”

It was just so _bizarre_.

Alexis didn’t even know what to answer.

Marc took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“Right,” he said, “let’s go back. Let’s try this again. Did you,” he started softly, “like it when I kissed you?” As he said it his mouth relaxed. Alexis almost wondered if he was about to smile.

Alexis didn’t know if he was ready to tell the lie saying that he hadn’t.

Marc’s eyes opened. Marc’s lovely green eyes, that were normally so calm; so composed and not fraught. And not _hurt_.

“Do you want me to kiss you again?” Marc tried, carefully. “I can kiss you again, if you want.” His fingers touched gingerly at Alexis’ jaw, unsure. Alexis wanted to move closer.

 Alexis suddenly wanted Marc to kiss him again. He wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything- it hit him sudden and sharp. Where there had been nothing before there was now this visceral pull that threatened to take over; Alexis felt the tug towards chaos and it _terrified_ him.

“I have,” he croaked instead, “to go.”

Marc let out air and leaned back. “Okay,” he said, looking away. “Okay. Fine.”

“I, uh,” Alexis tried to say something. Alexis didn’t know what to say.

“Say hi to Woj for me,” Marc said icily. “Tell him that he owes me that fifty.”

“Right.” Alexis hesitated. He rubbed at his mouth again. His heart thudded suddenly against his chest; sending adrenalin instantly throughout his body, like it did when he knew he was about to make a terrible mistake right before he made it.

He fled down the stairs. He barely paused to grab his bag inside the door to Chicha’s, didn’t bother with the elevator; right now he felt like he needed the pain that shot through his knees as his feet pounded down the steps, the creak in his ankles from running in bad shoes, the groan of un-stretched muscles.

Anything that wasn’t the weight in his trousers that told him kissing Marc was something that he had liked a little bit too much.

 “The fuck?” Woj asked, opening the door and glowering at Alexis magnificently. “Did you _run_ here?”

“No,” Alexis said, pushing past him. Only the whole way.

“Are you drunk.”

“No.”

Woj closed the door and looked at Alexis like he was contagious.

“Does this look like two o’clock to you?”

Alexis looked at his watch. “Uh,” it was nearly three, “no.”

Woj had a teeny tiny flat right next to the city centre, the kind that didn’t regard interior dividing walls as strictly necessary and made it only too easy to spend your life in the bed that took up most of it.

Alexis and Woj were friends, but sadly, only friends enough that Alexis was still relegated to the spectacularly uncomfortable couch in the corner of the room.

Woj rubbed his face. “Whatever,” he said. “I’m going back to bed,” he crawled on to his, “wake me up when you’re less monosyllabic. Or, you know, when we have to leave. In _two hours_.”

Alexis winced.

“Uh, right.” He kicked off his shoes. His hands shook as he let his bag down beside the couch.

“I’d ask if something was wrong,” Woj rolled over and frowned up at him now as Alexis pulled out his toothbrush, “but I thought you might like to know that I don’t care.”

“That’s fair,” Alexis’ voice wobbled a little bit, betraying him. So Woj sat up again.

“You’re not going to protest, that I don’t care?”

“No,” Alexis said, a little more evenly. Several thousand years ago, his body had fitted too well to Marc’s. His body had kissed back. His stupid, traitorous body had _liked_ it.

Woj’s eyes narrowed, in a way that Alexis only knew too well.

He was absaloutely not going to let this drop.

“How was the party? Chicarito’s, right?”

Alexis looked up slowly from where he’d been turning his pyjamas inside out and made sure to give Woj a look of total, complete and utter incomprehension. “Since when do _you_ follow my social calendar?”

“Since,” Woj explained, “you started having one.”

 “You guys have to stop this. I definitely do get out, okay.”

“How are the other two getting home?”

Alexis couldn’t believe his ears. “Who _are_ you?” he squinted. “Am I meant to start commenting on the size of your teeth now, Grandma?”

Woj rolled his eyes. “Shut up. That isn’t even funny. That joke gets a zero for execution.”

“No, you’re right,” Alexis corrected, “your teeth are already enormous.” Then he remembered. “Marc, uh, says you still owe him a fifty, by the way.”

Woj went very still. “Who does?”

Even his name in Alexis’ head bowled him right over with searing feeling. “Marc does.”

“Fifty?”

Alexis slowly realised that somewhere along the line here in this conversation, he had made a fatal mistake. “Maybe?”

Woj pulled himself off the bed and stood up. In hindsight, Alexis couldn’t have expected anything less than the back of his hand to his face after he’d marched over to him.

Besides, his face was still kind of sensitive from all that kissing he’d been doing. When Woj’s knuckles hit his cheek, his eyes watered.

“ _What_?” he squawked, clutching his face. Woj shook out his fingers, then examined them carefully in the light.

“That felt great,” he explained, frowning at them; as though Alexis hadn’t just collapsed back on to the couch in pain and shock. “It has been a while since I’ve done that.”

In his daze, Alexis found it hard to believe.

“Ow,” he mumbled.

“I’ll do it again,” Woj warned, sitting down.

“Don’t,” Alexis pleaded. “What was that _for_?” Because he’d reminded Woj that he owed Marc money? Wait.

“That _poor_ boy,” Woj tutted, as if to clarify.

“You told him to kiss me and then _bet_ on it?” Alexis felt betrayed in every last cell of his body.

“Not a _bet_ ,” Woj said, “I said that if he told you that from the minute he saw you he’s been salivating at your feet; then he’d get to live happily ever after, and if not; I’d pay him fifty bucks.”

“So,” Alexis stated, “a bet.” His jaw still felt numb, no matter how much he tried to rub life in to it. _In what universe does life-long happiness equate to fifty bucks?_

Woj scowled at him. “What did you _do_ , Alexis?”

 _Me?_ “I didn’t _do_ anything.” _He kissed_ me. “I mean... I just said we had to think of Ney. You know. That Ney likes him and it wasn’t fair to do that to him.”

“ _Incredible_.” Alexis wished it sounded like a compliment, but it whenever that word came out of Woj’s mouth it was never with that intention. “Really. This is your worst.”

“Unfair,” Alexis protested. “I didn’t _know_ you’d gone and _bet_ on it.”

“This may sound odd coming from me,” Woj clarified. “But I didn’t do it for the money.”

“That does sound odd coming from you,” Alexis said.

Woj ignored him. “You know, in that entire weird friendship the four of you have? I know you like to think of yourself as their fairy godmother or some sort of pillar of morality or whatever,” _stop being honourable_ , Marc’s voice said in Alexis’s head, making him flinch painfully, “but. All Oscar worries about are his grades, all Neymar worries about his himself and all Marc worries about is _you_.”

“Not true.” Alexis tried, forcing thoughts of Marc’s lectures on martyrdom from where they’d rudely walked in to his head.

“So, _so_ true,” Woj argued. “And the least he deserves for his time would have been for you to admit that you are a little bit in love with him, too.”

“I’m…” _not_.

He wanted to say it. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t deny that Marc’s kiss hadn’t made him react like it had- how much he had liked it and feared how much he’d liked it in equal measure. It wasn’t just the action; it wasn’t just endorphins, most of it had been because it had been Marc.

And then he thought about it.

He wasn’t going to pretend that he didn’t know that Marc was beautiful. He’d admitted that much to himself early on. He also couldn’t pretend that his infuriating bone structure wasn’t something that occupied his mind a lot. Nor the forever shifting colours of his eyes. How heavily he’d slept when he’d fallen asleep to Marc’s touch. How he wanted it to go on forever.

How thinking all these things hit him with a wave of emotion that made him want to smile and laugh and cry, all violently, and all at the same time.

“I fucked up,” he finished eventually. A sentence he’d had to utter probably more than anyone should in the last twelve hours. “I… Woj. Shit. I fucked up.”

Woj raised his hands skywards in prayer. “Alleluia,” he declared to the ceiling.

Alexis got to his feet. “I have to fix this.”

“Alexis,” Woj gave him a disapproving look. “It is three o’clock in the morning.”

“I have to fix this _now_.”

“No,” Woj rolled over a pulled his pillow over his face. “You don’t have to fix this _now_. You can fix it tomorrow. After work. I need you,” he raised a warning finger, his head still covered, “because the day after the end of term we will be overrun with hungover students seeking deep fried carbohydrates. It doesn’t matter if you fix this right this second or tomorrow when we get off. Okay? Now,” he commanded and pointed to the bathroom. “Go wash your teeth.”

Meekly, Alexis scraped his things from the floor where he’d let them fall after Woj’s, surprisingly refreshing, slap to the face.

Alexis’s toothbrush felt invasive in his mouth in a way that Marc hadn’t.

He spat the sour taste of cigarettes down the sink.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mario woke up in the middle of the night with thirst in throat like he’d never experienced before. He swallowed once, twice, considered not getting out of bed to fix it; tried burying in to his pillow; and when that didn’t work, he resignedly nudged Marco’s arm from around his waist and pulled himself from under his duvet to a heap on his bedroom floor with a groan.

Rubbing furiously at his face; he managed to make his feet obey basic cerebral commands as he just about dragged himself in to the kitchen upright. In the dark, he felt for the edge of the cupboard, his fingers curled around a glass and he ran the tap slowly; afraid that the sudden pinging of water on stainless steel would wake the other occupants of the flat.

Water at the back of his throat was possibly, right then, the most glorious thing he’d ever felt.

A hand touched at his hip, and Mario nearly leapt from his skin. He dropped the glass in to the sink with an echoing, metallic _twang_.

“Sorry,” Marco murmured, his arms crossing around Mario’s front. He cuddled around him, kissing right behind his ear.

“The fright,” Mario clucked, “was not appreciated.”

“Cool,” Marco murmured sleepily. “I missed you.”

“It has been,” Mario questioned slowly, leaning back in to the embrace and letting his head tilt back to rest on Marco’s shoulder, “seven whole seconds since I got out of bed.”

“Missed you anyway.”

Mario wondered briefly if Marco was starting to suffer from some sort of separation anxiety, which could be problematic given their possible countries of residence next year. Then Marco pressed his lips to Mario’s neck, and Mario didn’t think about anything at all.

“Don’t worry,” Marco whispered. “I was already awake. Promise.”

“Why?” Mario turned in his arms and let the back of his hips press to the counter, so now he could tuck his head under this particularly nice Marco-smelling pocket under said human’s chin.

“Why what?” His fingers brushed through Mario’s hair, pressing his head closer to him.

“Why were you awake?” Mario was sleepy already.

Marco paused.

“I was thinking. Just thinking. About, I dunno.” he tucked his head closer, “I love you.”

Mario sighed. The skin of Marco’s chest was soft and warm and Mario was once again reminded of Marco’s properties of the best pillow he’d ever had.  “Cool.”

He felt rather than saw Marco’s frown.

“Cool?”

“Yeah,” Mario yawned. The counter was very pointy against the top of his hip. “Uh. Can we move this cuddle back to bed, please?”

“Nah,” Marco’s fingers stretched around Mario’s jaw and tilted his head up to look up in to his eyes. “I told you that I love you. And you said,” he put on a scathing voice, “’cool’”.

Mario’s brain was still half-asleep, and so was functioning slightly slower than normal. “I… did?”

Marco chewed on the inside of his lip.

“I… love you too?” Mario tried, confused.

At this Marco almost smiled. “Once more. With feeling this time.”

“I don’t understand,” Mario complained, tired. _I want to go back to bed_.

“I just thought that, when I told you that I loved you… you’d have something more insightful to say than… ‘Cool’”. Marco pursed his lips.

“I mean,” Mario whispered, finally understanding. “I thought… you did already. Like,” he swallowed, “I do already. Love you, that is.”

Marco’s eyes went wide. “Already?”

“Kind of the entire time,” Mario admitted.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

First, Mario leaned up and kissed his cheek, wrapping his arms tight around Marco’s neck. “I’m gonna be a sap and say: remember the day we first met?”

Marco looked baffled. “You mean when Kevin stole my hat?”

“Well, I was probably in love with you… about twelve seconds after Kevin stole your hat.” Mario kissed him. “So. You know. I mean. I assumed?”

Marco didn’t look any less confused, even though he leaned in to the kiss. “Really?” he asked. “That long?”

“Absaloutely that long.”

Marco’s arms linked and tightened behind his back. Mario made sure to kiss him again, tasting the sleep on his lips. “You love me?” Marco whispered, apparently still flabbergasted.

The denial sent super-charged heat through Mario’s body. He squeezed him closer.

“Let’s go back to bed,” he whispered. “I don’t think André would appreciate what I want to do to you right now happening on his couch.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Marc fell through the front door first.

“Ouch,” he snorted, collapsing flat across his stomach in the hall.

Neymar gave a comical, high pitched giggle, right before he tripped over him. Marc heard him collide solidly against the wall with a ridiculous shriek that made Marc start laughing so hard that his sides hurt.

Honestly, like it made a difference, because right now- where did he not hurt? His head reeled from the hard spirits he’d been ingesting, his throat from singing- no, _screaming_ \- drinking songs at the top of his lungs, different ends of limbs from where they’d hit off wayward furniture; and even though Marc didn’t like to think of himself as someone who wallowed in tragedy, because honestly there was already enough of that- he had to admit that there was this area around his heart that hurt worst of all.

Alcohol sloshed around his brain and made it impossible for him to right himself. So he crawled over to where Neymar was lying heaving great sobs of laughter and kicked him.

“Ow!”

“Wasn’t me,” Marc said seriously. Neymar’s arm caught him across his face, stunning him for several seconds. He kicked back again once the stars had cleared behind his eyes, to a satisfying yelp.

Marc reached for the wall and managed to pull himself over to sit. Neymar remained in a giggling heap on the floor, his sides heaving from laughter and breathlessness.

“I hate you,” Neymar informed him, wiping away an actual tear of mirth with his palm.

 _If only_ , Marc thought. _Fucking Neymar_. His eyes slid closed, decidedly to help with the spinning of his head. It made it worse.

 _Fucking Woj._ He slammed his head back against the wall and groaned, because it hurt less in theory.

_Fuck. Alexis._

Desperate sadness crept in with the pain.

Neymar’s hand fisted in to his jacket. “We made it,” he slurred, his beery breath suddenly too much for Marc’s stomach “we didn’t fall in to the river, _heeee_!” He rocked forward and pressed his forehead to Marc’s shoulder as he hauled himself upright beside him on the floor. Then, “I should have stopped after the vodka came out.”

Marc groaned. At the mention of vodka his stomach churned uncomfortably.

“Bad idea,” he murmured. “Bad, _bad_ idea.” He let his head sink in to his knees.

“ _Bad_ vodka,” Neymar scolded, to no one in particular.

Marc laughed. Neymar was funny. But Marc still didn’t want to sleep with him.

 _Alexis_ _, though_.

Alexis had lips like satin. He knew that now. He also knew that Alexis’s eyes weren’t just chocolately up close; but many, _many_ types of chocolately. Sparkly caramel. Dark. Golden brown. Marc had wanted to look in to his eyes forever. Marc had wanted to kiss him forever. Everything had felt so right about it. It was a stupid, basic need that closed his throat over.

“Fuckin’, _waste_ ,” Neymar mumbled. “Didn’t pull a single person. What even.”

Marc’s head throbbed. “Me too,” he said listlessly. “We should give up.”

“Don’t be _modest_ ,” Neymar slurred. “You could get anyone you _wanted_.”

“I can’t,” Marc said. “I _can’t_. I kissed him and I know now I _can’t_.”

“Kissed who,” Neymar asked, flashing sober. Marc turned his head the other way.

“Alexis,” Neymar said, after a long minute, catching Marc by surprise. He was about to question it when Neymar added “I’m sorry,” in a tiny voice, and Marc had never heard him say anything in such a tiny voice.

“No,” Marc promised, reaching for his jumper. Reaching to bring him close. Poor Neymar. _He knows what it’s like_ , Marc realised, _because of Oscar. He knows what I feel._ “It’s not your fault.”

He buried in to Neymar’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” Neymar wound his arms into whatever this clinging thing they were doing to each other was.

Marc wasn’t really sure how they started kissing, somewhere between Neymar’s apologies and Marc’s refusal to accept them; because as much as he wanted to blame Ney, he couldn’t. It was very wet, very sloppy kissing; alcohol had numbed Marc’s lips hours ago.

“I’m sorry,” Ney said against him, shaking. “I am so sorry.”

All Marc knew was anger and Alexis and now; with Neymar’s arms around him he knew comfort. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t give in to Neymar, he knew he should push him away. But.

Alexis needed to help his stupid self. Marc felt horrible and alone and like he’d lost the only thing he’d ever been really fighting for in the first place.

Marc dragged Neymar in to his room by the belt.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I’m not going,” Lukas whispered. For a second he wondered if Basti’d heard, but then he lifted his head from Lukas’s shoulder. Basti; who had come home tasting of whiskey and ashtrays, looking worn out and remorseful, whispering desperate apologies in to Lukas’s skin.

So Lukas had made up his mind.

He squeezed at Basti’s hand. He laid his head back against the cool interior wall behind the bed and cleared his throat. “I’m not going,” he said again.

“Not going?” Basti rasped. His hand in Lukas’s pressed back, and his other ran up Lukas’s damp chest, fingers brushing at his neck, before he pushed at the outer edge of Lukas’s jaw and turned him to meet his eyes. “What do you mean, you’re not going?”

“I mean,” Lukas dipped his head to nudge at Basti’s cheek with his nose, “that I can’t.”

“Since when?” Basti’s voice said close to his ear. Lukas couldn’t make out if he sounded tired or angry, but it didn’t seem to make Basti as happy as Lukas thought it would.

“Since,” Lukas paused. Basti’s cheek was impossibly soft under his mouth. “I dunno. Maybe an hour ago?”

Basti was silent, looking up at Lukas wide eyed and astounded.

“You can’t,” he said eventually. He said it with such conviction that it made Lukas sit back. “Lukas, you have to go.”

Lukas sighed. He nudged his cold toes in to Basti’s calf.

“You changed your mind.”

“I… it’s not that I changed it.” Basti rested his head on Lukas’ shoulder again. “It’s… Luki… I know I said what I said, but then I thought about it. I’ve had two whole weeks to think about it and sulk about it. I realised I was wrong, okay?”

Lukas watched as he brushed Basti’s knuckle with his thumb. He’d missed the sight of their hands together.

“How can you say that,” he argued. “We should have talked it out. I should have told you about it from the beginning. I know,” his voice cracked, “I know, I said it was about me, doing things without you but… It was easier to make the decision that way. If I just assumed you would be okay with it.” He took a deep breath. “It was… stupid. But honestly- you’re more important than any of it, okay? I can’t do any of this unless I have you. I’m not _me_ without _you_.”

Basti’s eyes softened. He nuzzled Lukas’s shoulder gently with his cheek. “Luki,” he murmured.  “That may be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“It wasn’t meant to be romantic.”

Basti laughed softly. “I’ve decided that it was.” His hand clasped Lukas’ with impossible strength, clammy and warm. “Anyway, you’re still going. If that’s the only reason you can’t go, then I’m telling you that you have me. I’m telling you to go.”

“Basti-“

“ _No_.”

They glared at each other for several long seconds. But it was hard to keep it up when Basti was so close.

 _He’ll come back_ , Manu had promised, again and again. _He misses you. He’s bullheaded and he needs to mope it off_ , _but he’ll come round._

But Basti had ignored Lukas’ calls, and Basti still hadn’t come home. Lukas had been miserable, but he’d told himself that he could deal with all of the gaping hole and this strange silence that Basti had left in his wake.

Lukas hadn’t realised until now how much he’d accepted that it was over. He had been preparing himself for it for months, ever since he’d got that stupid letter.

“We’ll figure it out.” Basti was certain now in his promise. “But I’ve tried not being with you and honestly I _can’t_. We will make this work. You’re going to go and I am going to wait for you. I’d wait forever for you. I should have known that, I- oh my God, Lukas Podolski; are you _crying_?” Basti laughed suddenly, it was the most beautiful sound.

Lukas couldn’t even dignify that with an answer; or rather he couldn’t really see anymore. His eyes were kind of wet and stinging and he had to blink furiously. He pulled his hand from Basti’s and pulled him to him, rolling him over, rolling them together; until he wasn’t that sure where he ended and Basti began.

“I love you.”

“And you’re _stupid_.”

As they kissed the sky outside turned pink.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

“So that’s it?” A sleepy voice inquired. “I don’t even get a note?”

Toni froze with his second sock half on. Unsteadily, he turned.

His stupid body clock had woken him at seven, with a searing jolt of hunger to his stomach enough to remind him that he didn’t have enough food in his house to breakfast one person, let alone two. The second person in question being one, cherub-faced ray of sunshine sprawled on his back on Toni’s bed; his head loping gently over the side. The upsidedown-ness of his smile did nothing to diminish its sheer wattage.

“I’ve been caught,” Toni admitted, slightly overwhelmed by the sight. “Interrupted on my romantic morning quest for croissants.”

James let out a golden peal of laughter and stretched his arms over his head, down to the floor. His t-shirt slid down his stomach, and Toni froze, still balanced on one leg, transfixed. He would continue to be as cheesy as possible, if it made James react like that.

It was a sight he could get used to.

“Croissants?” James yawned, showing off all his teeth; and rubbed his eyes. He pulled himself the right way up, swinging his legs around so he could sit on the edge of the bed. “Hmmmm. I didn’t have you down as someone who wore sweat pants,” he added, nodding almost gleefully at Toni’s.

“Only at weekends,” Toni quipped.

“I thought,” James yawned again, “that you were more of the pinstriped pyjamas type. You know. That actually irons his sleepwear. And with like,” he grinned sluggishly, “old man slippers. And a pipe.”

Toni’s heart melted from his chest. “Do you really think so little of me?”

“Yes,” James said certainly. Then he held out his hand for Toni to take, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

What else could Toni do? He gave up on his sock struggles and took it to sit down on the bed beside him.

“I am hungry, though,” he thought it would be important to point out. “I didn’t eat as many churros as you did.”

Their walk around the market felt like a dream now. A pine-smelling dream of endless James smiles. This _all_ felt like a dream; and Toni was pretty determined to never wake up from it. It was hard to reconcile that he’d started this semester believing it would be serious and lonely. Now he was starting the next totally certain that it would be anything but.

James giggled and yawned again. “So many churros.” His chin dropped to Toni’s shoulder. “You get up too early,” he informed him.

“Are you going to call Chicha? Let him know that you’re here?”

“He knows,” James managed over another impossible yawn. “I think. Probably. Anyway, he’ll hanging too much right now to care.” He hesitated thoughtfully so Toni thought he was going to add something else, but instead James leaned in and kissed him.

It caught him totally by surprise. He’d probably spent more time in the last twelve hours kissing James than he’d spent doing anything else, including sleep, so it really shouldn’t have.

“I’ll forgive you,” James said, a little breathlessly, “for falling asleep on me.”

Awkward warmth spread across Toni’s cheeks. He hadn’t remembered falling asleep, but it couldn’t have been much longer after they’d come in; James’ hasty explanation that he didn’t want to go back to his just yet because of some end-of-term party Chicha was throwing- something about sports friends- saving a silently grateful Toni from suggesting that they go back to his. Honestly he would have had no idea how to broach that topic.

And then. And then Toni had fallen asleep.

“I literally just went to the bathroom, and you were already snoring,” James laughed, poking at Toni’s stomach as Toni caught his head in one hand and groaned.

“I am _so_ sorry,” Toni would probably never forgive himself. In years to come he would probably still look back on this and want to die. “That was not my smoothest moment.”

“It’s fine. It was cute, so I still like you,” James promised, looking pleased that Toni was dying slowly from mortification. “You looked beat. Although, you do snore pretty loud.” The sharp end of his finger probed his stomach again, making Toni cringe away.

“Ouch,” he complained.

James was very cheerful for someone who had been fast asleep only minutes ago. “Ticklish, Kroos?”

“Absaloutely not, Rodriguez,” he lied back. Then he attempted a quick counter-attack, before James could retaliate.

James as it turned out, was very ticklish indeed.

“Stop!” James’ panicked screeches marred his laughter. Laughter that Toni just wanted to be able to record and playback on a loop throughout the rest of his life. “ _Evil_!” He rolled on his back away from Toni and kicked out with his legs, still trapped in his jeans.

Toni was laughing so hard that he belatedly realised that cramps were developing across his stomach. With difficulty, he managed to get a hand around one of James’ ankles and pull it to the mattress, and used it as leverage to pull James under him.

Breathless, desperate kissing followed on from breathless, desperate tickling. James tasted a little sour, like morning. His arms circled Toni’s waist, his legs wrapping tight around Toni’s.

Toni made a split-second decision about where this was going to go.

He yanked his own t-shirt over his head, feeling it pull his hair up the wrong way. James slowly catching on and giving a dastardly grin beneath him was enough to make him fumble awkwardly as he struggled to get it down his arms; but it was also enough to make James laugh. His back arched up from the sheet and his hands gilded smoothly, carefully around Toni’s elbows as he eased his top from them.

“You’re doing that thing,” Toni heard himself murmuring. He ran the edge of his finger along the line of James’ cheek, not even bothering to discard his t-shirt from where the last of it was wrapped around one wrist.

“What thing?” James asked, eyes blinking slowly. His hands ran along Toni’s collar; seemingly fascinated.

“Cosy eyes,” Toni managed, before he leaned down to kiss in to James’ neck without further explanation. It felt a little scratchy against his lips. There were already marks there from where Toni had passed by the night before.

James’s hands ran down his back, pulled him close. His hips moved almost helplessly up to Toni’s; and they both paused.

“I take it that’s a ‘no’ to croissants, then?” Toni asked, his voice shaking; the ends of his lips curling.

James hit him.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Why,” Woj’s voice asked tiredly, “are you hiding under the table?”

Alexis raised his head from his knees. Sadly, he was kind of under the table. “I’m not _hiding_ ,” he said, because he was also too drained for this, having not slept a single minute of the hour and a half Woj had allocated last night. “I’m _avoiding_.”

Woj squinted through the door from the back in to the shop to the front counter.

“Who?” He asked, craning his neck. “The blond guy?”

“He was my examiner yesterday,” Alexis moaned. “I refuse. I can’t. Not today.”

“Lucky for you,” Woj said, “Aaron is covering your ass. Pity, because he’s cute.”

“I don’t care.”

“As you shouldn’t, I think we’ve already established that your thirsts lie elsewhere.”

Alexis would have given him a dirty look if he could actually have seen his face. “I really hate you, sometimes.”

“Well, you’re out of luck on both fronts- this guy’s pretty taken. He’s holding some other dude’s hand and _glowing_ at him. No offence, but you can’t even compete with those cheekbones.”

“Shut up,” Alexis said, languidly. He didn’t even have enough energy to put venom in it.

He felt Woj’s pause.

“Alright. That’s it.”

“No it isn’t,” Alexis protested, cowering away from him.

“Yes. Get. Up. I’m taking you home.”

That got Alexis’ attention. He couldn’t believe his ears.

Woj sensed this gap in his armour and leaned under the table, found the edge of Alexis’s arm with his annoyingly long fingers, and yanked him out sideways on to the tiles.

“What about,” Alexis stuttered, getting to his feet, “hungover students? Deep fried carbohydrates?”

“Whatever. They can wait until you either sleep or get your super-tragic love declaration off your chest. Either, or. I can’t look at you being all pathetic anymore.”

“Do you really care for my well being,” Alexis started sourly, getting to his feet and untying his apron before Woj could change his mind, “or is this more about you raiding our fridge?”

Woj shrugged. “A perk,” he declared, before he herded Alexis out the back.

 _A proxy_ , Alexis thought.

According to the radio it was the coldest December in the last twenty years, and no one knew how to deal with it. Outside people were overcompensating with massive, woollen hats and scarves; and the occasional ski jacket. Alexis had packed his biggest padded jacket he owned but it did nothing to save his face. He decided that, first chance he got; he’d be investing in a balaclava; because if he didn’t soon he’d have no nose left.

But, if his innards felt boreal, it was from regret and shame and probably not the weather.

How had he got Marc so wrong? How had he misunderstood _himself_ so badly? He’d had all morning to re-evaluate his life and but he was such a mess from this desperate tug around his stomach region whenever Marc entered his head, that he didn’t think he’d ever be able to reconcile it.

He’d tried explaining it but Woj’s response had been a snappy _oh_ , _grow up and quit pining._

The walk home felt like it took several hundred years. Each step weighed Alexis further down to the ground.

He didn’t know what he was going to say to Marc. His joints were stiff and uncooperative. In the elevator to their flat he wondered if his chest would collapse inwards as anxiety vacuumed all the air from it.

The ghost of Marc’s kiss still hung constantly around his mouth.

Inside the door, he hung back as he hung up his coat, his scarf, kicked his bag in to the corner of the hall. On his way in to the kitchen, he hesitated at Marc’s bedroom door. His fingers traced the handle.

 _Do it now_ , his head told him. _Talk to him now._ So why couldn’t he?

“Is Lex with you?” a chirpy voice asked from the kitchen.

“Oscar?”

Sure enough, Oscar was pottering around the kitchen, fishing out a bowl and cereal and handing them to Woj. Woj was spread on the couch, looking like his job here was already done.

“Hey,” Oscar said, a little too brightly, because he was Oscar. “You guys are back really early, right? I didn’t think you’d be in until lunch.”

“We’re back really early,” Woj confirmed, as he slid to a lying position, flinging one of his arms across his face to block out the sunlight.

Alexis was about to comment but next thing he was nearly steamrolled by what felt like a large, yellow bean bag.

“How are you doing, girl?” he knelt in front of her. “Someone’s happy to see me.” Poker felt so soft and was so _happy_. It forced the smallest smile on to his face, and man, it had felt like a long time since he’d smiled. But she had grown twice her size in the last few months, and when she nuzzled her entire body to his he was nearly bowled over.

It felt very nice, though, to get such an enthusiastic cuddle when he felt so dead inside.

 “Has no one loved this dog since we left last night?” He looked questioningly up at Oscar, who shrugged.

“I fed her when I got in from Eden’s, like, ten minutes ago; but I haven’t seen the other two. I’m pretty sure they’re asleep. I didn’t want to check, but you know Ney. At the state he was bragging on drinking himself into I don’t think he would have been able to think about much.”

“Wise,” Alexis sighed. “When’s your train home?”

“Not until the afternoon. I thought we could have a bit of fun with Fifa though, while Ney’s still out of it.” Oscar winked, in a way that was very audacious for Oscar. And why not? They wouldn’t see each other until after Christmas, and Alexis had kind of missed hanging out with him since that boisterous Belgian had bounced in to Oscar’s life.

The controller in his hands felt like a foreign object, it had been so long since he’d played due to general uselessness and Neymar’s monopoly of the console. This was going to be fun, even more so because he had to deal with the large canine that insisted on following him on to the couch and then on to his lap that she was now really too big for.

The PlayStation had just started up, when they heard the warning creak of a door opening down the corridor.

 _Marc_ , Alexis thought, in a panic; clutching at the dog.

Beside him, Oscar stretched his neck.

Even Woj, who had compromised by moving his legs and rolling on to his side to let all four of them on to the couch with an uncharacteristic lack of protest, leaned up on to his elbow.

They caught a flash of very white boxers as they sped across the hall.

“Was that…?”

“Neymar?”

“I’ve never seen him move so fast.”

“Was that…?” Oscar asked hesitantly, “Did he just come from Marc’s room?”

Woj shot Alexis a warning look, like Alexis’ stomach hadn’t already fallen through the floor.

“Wow,” Oscar said, happily turning back to the television. “They must have been _smashed_ if Neymar couldn’t even make it as far as his own room.”

Innocent, innocent Oscar. _You’re getting more sex than the rest of us_ , Alexis thought, _and yet. Never change._

Alexis looked back at the screen and wondered if he was going to be sick. The thought of someone else in what he had only just got used to as being _his_ place set him off worse than anything, even if “his place” was merely Marc’s personal space.

But Marc had said that he didn’t want Neymar. Marc had said that he wanted _him_.

This thought was rudely interrupted by Neymar’s bedroom door slamming open, and Neymar trundling back in to the hall, a large wheely suitcase in tow.

“Uh,” he turned to look at them. Even Poker seemed hesitant to get up and go to him: Neymar had clearly thrown on the first clothes he found; his hair sat out in chunks and his suitcase was only half-zipped closed. “Train,” he explained in a raspy voice. He pulled a snapback down over his eyes. “Merry Christmas.” The door crashed closed violently on his way out.

“Weird,” Oscar whispered, shell-shocked.

“I mean his fashion choices are normally pretty poor,” Woj pointed out.

“No,” Oscar’s lips rounded into a confused pout. “He was meant to be getting the train home this afternoon, with _me_.” He twisted his head and looked at Alexis with the closest thing Oscar could come to contempt: basically an upset kitten. “What did you _do_?”

“What did _I_ do?” Alexis was hurt by the suggestion that his role as general household peacekeeper had been compromised.

“What do you mean, what did Lex do?” Woj rose to his defence. “He’s been with me the whole time since he last saw him.”

“But he was looking at _you_.” Oscar’s eyes narrowed. “ _Curious.”_

“He was looking at all of us,” Alexis said in his best disinterested voice. “We’re all sitting in a row, using his PlayStation that he’s more protective of than his own dog. Sorry,” he said to Poker, just in case she’d understood. She looked up at him with large, clueless eyes; and then she licked at his chin, making him grimace.  

It wasn’t like Alexis could concentrate on the game now. He was tired, tired and so, very, anxious. Marc was _there_. _Marc_ , who had been every second thought he’d had since they’d kissed.

By the third game he’d lost in a row, Alexis was only too glad to hand over his duties to Woj and let his head recline to the back of the sofa. His entire body ached.

Should he get up? Should he go down to, to Marc’s room? He had this sudden image in his head of crawling into bed with him, curling up beside him. The idea calmed the storm of his insides. Long naps with Marc. These were things he could get used to. And it wasn’t like it would be _weird_ , or anything. It wasn’t like long afternoon naps with Marc wasn’t something he’d already done. At most, Oscar might roll his eyes. And Neymar… Neymar would just have to live with it.

But just. Other things might also happen during those naps. Alexis shivered when he let himself think about it.

He turned his head to look back down the corridor to the front door, lined with their rooms. One of them had Marc in it. He should get up. He should go down to him. He should start exploring these possibilities.

This was a thing he should do.

He was just about to lift himself from his seat, push the dog’s head from his knee, when Marc’s door opened again.

His heart stopped beating.

Marc’s silhouette in the dark hallway made his throat catch. Already Alexis could see the long lines of his bare arms, the outline of his dishevelled hair.

 _Marc._ His heart sang. _Finally._

Then Marc stepped in to the kitchen, and it wasn’t the soft lines of his chest, nor the dark, almost kohl-like circles around his eyes, or the tiny worry crease between his brows that caught Alexis’s attention first.

At the top of his collar, pronounced and red-blue in the late morning light, was a large, dark bite mark.

Any hope Alexis had been nurturing of Neymar merely being unable to reach his own room due to his inebriated state evaporated.

Marc had frozen, looking very ill; his hand halfway through pushing his hair straight back from his forehead. Slowly, his skin went from grey, to something resembling green.

“Lex.” Alexis would have known how to read that word on his lips in every universe.

Alexis couldn’t tear his eyes from the large, possessive stain that someone that wasn’t Alexis had left on him.

 _But_ , Alexis thought dully, _he’s meant to be mine. This isn’t meant to happen._

His hands curled tight into the dog’s fur and Poker let out a distressed whine, which alerted Woj, who turned; his “the fuck?” in turn altering Oscar.

“Marc?” Oscar said, astonished. “Is that? Was that…?”

Then he said it. He said what they all were thinking, and the total incredulousness of his tone wasn’t far from Alexis’ only long series of figurative question marks in his head. “Did _Neymar_ do that?”

Woj snapped his head around to Alexis, wide-eyed. Alexis couldn’t even reflect on the only panic he had ever seen cross his face. He was too busy trying not to be sick.

The dog whined and pawed at his leg. He absently patted her head.

“Lex,” Marc’s mouth was saying, again. If only Alexis could concentrate on that. “I’m sorry. It’s not that. I _promise_ it wasn’t like that.”

Alexis tasted bile at the back of his throat.

“ _Neymar_?” Oscar managed again, through a half laugh.

“Can we talk?” Marc said to Alexis desperately, ignoring the mix of horror and delight in Oscar’s tone.

“No,” Woj spat. “You can’t talk to him.”

The area around Marc’s eyes turned red.

“Lex, _please._ I meant what I said, okay? I still mean everything I said.”

Alexis’ throat felt like it had been coated with flour.

Oscar, however, remained oblivious to the tension in the atmosphere. He let out another laugh.

“Whoa,” he said. “ _Whoa_. You and _Neymar_? This is going to be so much _fun_ , next semester.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting in the Football RPF tag and I hope I do it justice. Let me know if you like ^^ (because it will make me so hfbhwebhewddfbf happy)
> 
> A very big THANK YOU to everyone who liked it and commented because I did not expect so many of you to like my characters like I do. And a special shout-out to those who hunted me down on tumblr and badgered me about it there because that was totally unexpected and ngl it made me feel really cool! 
> 
> I hope I gave my boys the send off they deserve!


End file.
